


All of Me

by Mary_Jane221B



Series: I Would Give You All of Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 97,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jane221B/pseuds/Mary_Jane221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months after Sherlock's fall John Watson is in Limbo, he's been existing in a world of grey and to be honest he was starting to find the silence soothing. It was never to last though, as DI Lestrade carries out Project Poppy an operation to clean up the underbelly of London a young girl is discovered. Who she is and what she means for the people Sherlock left behind soon becomes clear but one thing is for certain, 'Every Holmes needs a Watson of their own.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greg

Greg had never been that fond of how open his office is to the rest of the department; the glass walls left him feeling exposed. He had spent the first months after making D.I. moving filing cabinets to award himself some privacy.It became steadily more important as Sherlock started becoming a regular fixture on cases, there were only so many times he could put up with being called an idiot in front of his team before it became completely humiliating. More recently, when his work had become a distraction from his failing marriage and his wife's ever worsening excuses for infidelity, the glass walls of his office had meant every passing colleague had a front line view of his humiliation.With Sherlock's fall from grace and his subsequent suicide Greg had been forced to take a leave of absence, the idea of having to sit behind that desk with his personal grief on display to his whole division; a room of people who believed he had been deceived for so many years, that he'd been taken in by a fraud, disgusted him, almost as much as it filled him with dread. So when he'd returned to work and seen the head of Scotland Yard heading towards his, highly public, office he had been certain he was about to be fired, in the full view of his subordinates. Instead however he had been handed documents pertaining to a long term project; Project Poppy, something he could be passionate about, something that would help to start rebuilding his faded standing in the police force. He had thanked every deity he could think of for the opportunity to once again do some good for London. He would not be thanking them today however, today he was cursing the day he had seen his boss approaching his office, because today he was sitting across from one of the best men he had ever known and trying to explain the impossible.

‘I just don't understand Greg,' John Watson, once a constant pillar of strength had clearly crumbled under the weight of his grief. Greg took note of the dark rings under his eyes, the way his clothes hung a little more loosely and most tellingly of all he couldn't help but notice the metal crutch John had been leaning on when he entered his office, Greg thinks the man seems smaller as he stares out the window to the building opposite. They had become fast friends once Sherlock introduced them and Greg had witnessed their effectiveness while working together, they had bonded over a mutual affection for the manic genius they had both known so well. But when he had lost Sherlock he had lost John as well, when they had become a package deal Greg did not know but it was so obvious the doctor had become lost without his companion. The guilt Greg felt for adding to the man's burden may have been great but he knew he would be doing the right thing, for everyone involved, even if he were to admit to himself that his actions were not entirely altruistic with their intent. John needed a mission again, something to work for, something to live for. 

‘What I am saying John is that she's his, if you'll look at the DNA report you'll see. It's all there, in black, white and those weird lined diagrams,' Greg pulls out the computer print out. He had ensured the technician checked the result multiple times, it had felt as if he was very quickly descending into madness when he had initially been handed the folder, he had thought perhaps sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him after the months of insomnia he had been experiencing, 'it matches the DNA we have on file for him. I’m telling you I bloody checked mate, half this little girl's DNA comes from Sherlock Holmes. It might be hard to believe, I know I've been struggling with it but once you really look at the evidence I think you can easily see the truth of it.’ He knew he sounded desperate, so desperate that he was falling over his words, because he knew, just knew that John would not believe him. He wondered if the reason was simply he could not believe Sherlock would not have told him he had a daughter. Greg did not allow himself to focus on John's doubt, he was certain John didn't believe him, couldn't bring himself to believe the truth Greg was telling him. It did not seem to matter how many time John repeated the same action, checking between the report, the case file and the one photograph Greg had of the little girl.

‘Greg it’s not possible, why are you doing this? Do you feel bad or something? Is this some kind of joke? Is it Donovan?’ Greg noticed the twist of hatred that covered the doctor's face at the use of his sergeant's name, Greg thinks it is odd how when the results had come through Donovan had made no comment, she had said nothing, her face had been a mask of shock. She had tried handling the girl herself when they had found her hidden behind that cabinet, one of the other children admitted to hiding her when specific clients had come into the derelict building, but the young child had fought so hard against Donovan's grip that she had been forced to hand her over quickly to P.C. Osborn who had pulled the girl against her chest and held her tight while they exited the building.

‘John you know I wouldn't do that, none of us would, no member of this team behave in that way’ Greg accepted the pain John's doubt caused, he felt it all the deeper as he knew he had been just as absent from his friends life these past months than John had been in his, friendship went both ways after all. He had caused his own problems with this one; thoroughly botching talking to Sherlock that last time, John’s distrust was well deserved he knew. Project Poppy was just the sort of initiative where he would have needed Sherlock, he had known it from the beginning, the second the boxes of files had been delivered to him from the higher ups. But there was now a Sherlock shaped hole in the world and he knew he had help put it there. His actions, his disbelief, his fault, Sherlock had jumped, falling from great heights; metaphorically and physically, when Moriarty had pulled his net tight enough to kill. It would have been impossible for them to have known why, why he had truly jumped, but in John’s mind at least Greg knew he and Mycroft Holmes must have held a large portion of the blame.

‘John I…’ Greg sat behind his desk feeling that desperate desire to apologise that he had allowed to fill him in the first weeks following Sherlock's suicide. He had drowned the feelings in bottles of scotch and explosive arguments with his wife. But he had tried so many times in those first days John had been catatonic; initially sedated in the hospital, he had sequestered himself in Baker Street alone until the funeral,Greg had tried knocking on the door once only to find himself being shoved from the front stoop by a surprisingly strong Mrs Hudson.

_'You get out of here Gregory Lestrade, you've done nothing but cause trouble for the poor John.'_

_'Please Mrs. Hudson I need to see him, I need to apologise again.'_

_'No you don't, you need to leave him alone Gregory. He's a wreck and it's all because of your lot. That whole establishment should feel ashamed, spreading lies about a man who only ever tried to help.'_

_'I know Mrs. Hudson, it's why I need to apologise.'_

_'Don't you think you're a little late to do so Gregory. Now i'm not letting you in, so please, leave.'_

They had all been filled with such fiery rage, such emotional rawness, their grief was shared but not spoken about.

He had attended the funeral although he had not been certain he would be welcome and it was then that he had seen the full extent of John's loss. Greg had known he was looking at a broken man; wrapped in a dark suit, head fallen forwards and dark circles making his eyes appear both swollen and sunken. Greg remembered he had never cried, at least not at the funeral, he'd just kept his head down and clung to Mrs. Hudson's hand while the rest of the congregation surrounded them. Greg watched from the sidelines as the boys' Landlady, and John's surrogate mother, had tried to comfort him.

John’s eyes remained fixed on the image clutched between his hands, a grainy image,it had been taken as part of the procedure for recovered victims. The picture had been taken upon her removal from one of the many dens of iniquity Project Poppy was responsible for closing down. His bosses had all been working the same line, feeding it to him like a prayer, a mantra to strive for.

_‘Find them all Lestrade and burn them down, no more trouble from these areas, get them cleaned up’_

She was malnourished, underdeveloped, dirty, entirely silent and lacking in love. From the reports his team had been bringing in there was a high likelihood of abuse and as no one could find or identify the girl’s mother lord knows how the little one had ended up in that hellhole, ‘John I know it’s hard, none of us know what to do, but the DNA says she’s his. What can we do?’ 

‘Why did you test…’ his question is soft but Greg had been anticipating it.

‘We needed to find her mother, or someone, anyone really, needed to know if she belonged to any of the men or women we'd arrested.' Greg moved to reassure him when John's head shot up at the statement, Greg sees the slight panic and hopes that means he's finally getting through to his friend again, 'She didn't, but her DNA did flag up a report, Sherlock’s report and nothing else, no indication of a mother, just him, half his.I think you can see it if you look at her eyes, I guess you can't see them clearly on that, but, take it from me, they're just like his, and maybe other bits too, like her face a bit, her cheeks maybe, her hair certainly, but her eyes are what shows it the most’ Greg looked down at the image over John’s shoulder. The younger man seemed to have damaged the edges with his grip, but overall, John didn't react half as badly as Greg had envisioned. Ideas of punches flying and screaming fits had filled his mind, yet another performance piece put on in his office, before he had considered that those reactions had been more relatable to Sherlock than to John. 

  
But that had been his thinking truly, John Watson, doctor, soldier, loyal and loving, who else would he call. Who else could he have called, the possibility that either Holmes brother had known struck him as unlikely, given where he'd found her, he couldn’t imagine the child had been created in some loving embrace. More likely a drug induced nightmare, those thoughts bought Greg crashing into the nightmares of his past and pulling Sherlock through sobriety. Sherlock had never been the most self-aware drug addict, needle sharing he had been stringent with, this Greg knew he remembered the dressing down he had received from the dishevelled youth when he had first been forced to drag him from a crime scene doorway, where he had started spouting deductions a mile a minute to anyone that would listen.

His other option had been calling Mycroft but the man had gone MIA since Sherlock’s fall, and although Greg missed his company terribly, he would never have felt right reaching out, especially considering the last time he had laid eyes on the man. Remembering the funeral had brought that painful tightness back to his gut it happened any time he remembered the devastated stare Mycroft had worn, those once shining eyes were dulled by grief and Greg had no idea how to remove that, how to help someone when they lost their one reason for living. Sherlock,Greg knew, had been Mycroft’s world, he may have kept the country running, kept the heads of state sane when the world was seemingly determined to do otherwise; Greg had gathered from Sherlock’s sneers that the elder Holmes had a great deal more to do with national security than he had ever admitted himself, but none of that had mattered in the face of losing someone he clearly held so close to his heart.

But Greg's rose tinted glasses had not blinded him to the fact the man would not be guardian material, his obsessive behaviour with Sherlock had driven his younger brother to the warped relationship he had witnessed the brothers' share. Pushing so hard someone cracks, no Mycroft Holmes was not who this would little girl need, she needed someone warm and kind, quiet and considerate, someone strong enough to hold her above the terrible things she would have been witness and make her better. 

‘Surely, surely social services will do something…’ John’s voice had wavered, the tight control he had on his emotions slipping, Greg had witnessed this, the slipping of the shield John had erected whenever Sherlock hurt him. Greg had seen it rise after Sherlock had jumped. John needed this little girl as much as she needed him. 

‘Yes I imagine they’ll have a great deal to say and do but we all know someone who can make that process a lot smoother.’ The threat had been thinly veiled, but Greg had to try something, in truth he would have very little time to put his preferred plan into action, and he knew he would not be able to do it alone, he needed help, help from someone with enough power to control government departments for example.

‘He can’t have her.’ The near snarl that escaped John when he registered who Greg was referring should have been concerning, Mycroft and John’s relationship had never been good but the younger man had never struck him as distrusting. Greg knew Mycroft well enough to know such a reaction from John was unnecessary. Mycroft would see why it was imperative the child stayed with John. Sherlock would have wanted it that way.


	2. Mycroft

If Mycroft Holmes could have painted one thing on the walls of the British Parliament it would have been; 'You will be judged by what you succeed at gentlemen, not by what you attempt', not because he was in anyway against grand gestures or significant social movements, in fact the brilliant man who had once said those words had brought about significant change for their country. It had made them one of the leading providers of welfare on the planet. However no politician was without flaws and no government was without faults; this time however he had found himself walking the thin line between careful acceptance and manipulation and the ever present chance he would snap and verbally abuse their so called political leaders. In fact he believed the political framework of this country had become so rotten he had found himself being forced to consider a coup d'état at least three times this morning. In his last scheduled meeting of the day he had been forced to retreat into his mind, focusing his intellect on the developing crisis in the Sudan before his assistant, known globally as Anthea, had saved his mind from the inane drudgery, handing him a note about a halestorm of nonsense developing in the China's British Embassy, he would normally have passed it off to one of his team but the idea of escaping the Prime Minister's company a half hour early filled him with a carefully controlled glee. He was now seated, nursing an espresso cup, tie loosened, on tenterhooks for the verbal beating he would be justified in giving The United Kingdom's Ambassador in China, the man was a weasel and Mycroft had been plagued by boredom for weeks.  

‘Mister Holmes you have a call waiting on line one sir’, one of his secretary’s voices came through the tinny intercom they had installed for the office at Whitehall, he hated the thing and not only because it altered the voice of the person on either end but also because it became a constant source of distraction, he had preferred the phone system they'd worked with for years to this new development, but Anthea had insisted it was more appropriate and seemly. He had learnt early in their working relationship that arguing with Anthea earned him nothing more than a cuffed ear and the cold shoulder for a week. He started to prepare himself for the lecture he was expected to deliver to the ambassador on the correct procedure of scandal handling; his son having a sordid 'love affair' with the son of a chinese opposition party leader,the man had clearly panicked but he had no excuses for his actions, paying off the reporter had not been the answer, especially when said reporter represented the Chinese Government's newspaper.

‘Mr. Ambassador if you could refrain from speaking nonsense for five minutes I would appreciate it. Let me first reiterate that you have disgraced the position awarded to you by Her Majesty the Queen and as such it would be wise to refrain from insulting any more of her employees, would you not agree?’ Silence had greeted his declaration until an unexpectedly clear voice spoke from the other side;

‘Mister Holmes I don’t know who you think this is but I assure you I am no one’s ambassador.’

Mycroft felt his cheeks heating with embarrassment as he noted his mistake. The unidentified secretary on the intercom would be getting demoted for this, Gregory Lestrade was supposed to be announced by name; as all personal calls were, not sprung on him. As such he had failed to successfully repress the emotions the Detective Inspectors voice elicited in him; a deep throbbing in his gut, the feeling of liquid lust the mere sound of the mans voice caused every time they interacted. This would never have gotten past Anthea without proper warning and prepping arriving on the his desk.

As if on cue he heard a minor commotion outside and assumed Anthea had just returned from whatever errand she had departed on to realise the girl had sent the call through without consulting her or warning Mycroft.

‘Mr Holmes, are you still there?’

‘Yes Mr Lestrade, I am, but I have to admit for once you have caught me by surprise, I had not anticipated or expected a call. Although I assure you it is not unwelcome,’ he repressed the question that lingered on his tongue, it had become instinctual through the years of their contact to ask what disaster his brother was responsible for, he had missed the camaraderie between himself and the Detective Inspector over his brother’s antics. Mycroft missed his brother more however missed his sneer, condescension and the pure love he had felt every time Sherlock had laughed in his presence, even at his expense.  It had been four months, four months of grey and grief. Losing the only soul Mycroft had always loved had destroyed whatever hold on sentiment he had maintained. There would have been no point without Sherlock.

‘As nice as that sounds Mister Holmes I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.'

Gregory Lestrade paused here and he heard a minor conversation in the background, he could not hear the other person's input but the detectives came through only slightly obscured. He pulled up his link to the Metropolitan Police database imagining the call related to a case the older man was working on, Anthea started to control the desktop remotely from her position outside the room; she monitored his calls for the most part. She navigated the multiple layers of security from her own desk and computer, the woman was a certified genius with computers, a government trained hacker, he believed it was lucky for the country he found her before the likes of Assange turned her to promoting freedom of information instead; they had yet to discover a computer system she failed to break into given enough time. Case document's filled his screen as the woman filtered through them for relevant information, she highlighted the sections he may need to reference although through an initial scan Mycroft wondered why the Detective would call him over something so mundane. His latest reported raid had failed to turn up any issues of national security, he had been brought back to reality by Anthea's large text appearing on his screen, 'He's speaking again Sir', he had managed to drift from the conversation entirely at some point, he swore the woman was a witch sometimes.

'I need you to come down to the station. As soon as possible really, this is quite time sensitive and before you offer, it needs to be you, not your staff’

The files on his screen moved near frantically as his assistant scoured the available information for anything relevant. Arrest records, forensic reports, none of it provided a clue to the Detectives reasoning, as much as he would have loved an afternoon in the D.I.'s company he knew it would be unwise for him if he pursued the desire, the Gregory Lestrade was married which left him for all intents and purposes off limits to Mycroft, even after Sherlock's death. 

‘I am afraid Mr Lestrade that simply will not be possible, as you no doubt picked up on from this conversations opening I have important calls coming through any minute. If you tell Anthea the topic I am certain she will solve any issues you are experiencing, she has my complete faith. Good day Detective, I really must clear this line' he refused to admit he was effectively running away from Gregory but at the same time the man had the worst timing. Perhaps the day would come when he would be able to look at him without seeing the young man who had returned his brother to him numerous times.

Gregory was a very good man, Mycroft would admit to an attraction, he struck him as clever, witty and charming, his devilish smile had stroked Mycroft’s ego many times. He had yet to discover if the attraction was mutual but all his evidence suggested it was, their shared body language, conversation topics and light flirtation had been occurring for years and Mycroft liked to believe it had never progressed because of a mutual respect for the others position and their shared morality.

‘No wait Mycroft,’ The detective's use of his first name brought him up short, ‘look I know we're not as close as we were a few months ago but believe me, this is something you’re going to want to stop work for.’ His screen was a blur, Anthea now turned to the D.I.'s personal emails and the notes of his sergeants, something was clearly happening in Project Poppy that had the man rattled but computers and research were failing to provide answers, he detested relying on technology as a principle anyway. 

‘Tell me.’ It was an order and his tone did nothing to hide that, upon hearing the Detective's inhalation of breath, Mycroft made a judgment call and pressed the blue button on his telephone system, he'd used said button twice before and both in relation to incidents Sherlock had been central in creating, all communication through the office was now private, a data blackout, the normal surveillance footage and recordings would only replay white noise. It was supposed to be used for matters of national security but something about this conversation had Mycroft on edge, an adrenaline rush started surging through his veins. 

‘There’s a child here, she’s well, she’s under our care for the time being, but you see, she’s well,' Mycroft was thoroughly confused now, all this drama over a child,'her DNA says she is Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s child,' and now it was Mycroft's turn to hear white noise. The Detective Inspector was still talking, explaining something about multiple test and eyes and Mycroft realized the entire situation was ridiculous, his brother was not a father, 'we don’t know the mother and can’t find her, but this little girl Mycroft she’s right here. Look please, I know you've probably got loads of questions and I know you most likely don’t even believe me but right now I need you, need you to come down here and talk to me.' His head was still spinning slightly, it felt like some of the walls in his mind were dissolving, 'I need to you look at these results and I need for you and John to tell me what happens next.’

‘John is there?’ He owed the man; he had once again been dragged into a farce of a situation. John Watson deserved some peace at least.

‘Yes he’s sat opposite me right this second, look, just, please.’ The note of desperation in Gregory's voice was the deciding moment for him, he may not have been a slave to sentiment like so many others but he owed these men a debt, his family did at least, and he would be damned if he failed to come through for them. 

‘I can be there in ten minutes, keep the child in the station or wherever she is and do not let John leave without someone accompanying him.’ It must be imperative to keep John from being driven to any rash decisions or actions. The man had been made unstable by his brother's vicious end, he could hardly blame him, he had witnessed the recording after the fact, the moment he had been notified he had set of running from his office, his feet carrying him at speeds he was unaware he possessed, he was still too late, his security team held him back at the edge of the building, Anthea cradling the sides of his face, wiping the tears he wasn't aware had fallen from his cheeks, before forcing him into the back of a car. He had lost him, he had failed him, it had all been his fault. He had fallen to his knees in the back seat, his face pressed to his assistants knee as she threaded her fingers through his hair, it had just been the two of them and he had let himself fall apart, he knew he had allowed that monster to pull in his brother and now he had lost him.

The memory of his grief hit him so hard in that moment he had to hang up the phone, forcing it into it's cradle with more force than was truly necessary, he bent double having to pull in deep breaths of air just to stave off the overwhelming feelings of nausea sweeping his body. This farce could not be real, this child, whatever it was, it was a trick and yet he failed at repressing the smallest slither of hope. The desperation not to have lost his brother compleatly, but it could not be, he knew that this was something else, something dangerous. ‘Anthea!’ the volume of his voice surprised him, the high notes of panic and potentially feelings of shock more so.

The gun like sound of his head of security barging through the door did little to settle his mind. Her gun was drawn and she pirouetted to look in every corner,she clearly perceived no obvious threat she stilled, ‘Sir, are you well?’ He knew this was protocol, he may as well have screamed he was under attack, which he felt like he was to some degree, but this warfare was of the mind not the body, ‘There is no threat Anthea, at least none present in this room. I need you to organise for the car to take me to New Scotland Yard, immediately,' he started moving on autopilot, pulling at his tie until it lays in place, smoothing his hair, collecting his jacket from the back of his chair, 'but before that I need all surveillance pertaining to D.I.Lestrade over the last twenty four hours, on paper, I will review in transit, I am assuming that can be done in under two minutes.’

‘Sir’ The nervous energy pouring off him in waves had the woman moving forwards on her own instincts, he knew she cared for him; you could not work as closely as they did for seven years without developing a bond. He would not hesitate to trust he with everything in his life, they would strategize in the car, the person behind this rouse was as good as declaring war on his family and god help the individual who believed they could bring down the Holmes Empire.

‘Anthea, now’ His colleague aborted her movements instantly and retrieved her blackberry, typing one handed as she holstered her weapon once more.

‘Car will be ready in two minutes as requested, the report will arrive on my desk in one. I will be accompanying you in the car, as will David. Will you be entering the station?’

‘Yes’ She was the head of his security for a reason, the woman could bring together an army with a click of Mycroft's fingers, 

‘Then I’m dispatching team two, with your permission, to neighboring buildings’ team two consisted of five snipers, positioned to ensure his safety as well as that of his initial security team, it had taken some adapting on his part to accept the security the secret service thrust upon him, but Anthea, she kept him as far away from the arrangements as possible, he always knew he was safe however, that was her first priority.

‘Fine’ Mycroft walked the short distance to his coat rack, the dark overcoat may not have been the dramatic cape like creation his brother had preferred but it was cut to his body and provided the metaphorical armour this situation seemed to warrant.

Whoever was creating this illusion of a Holmes child would be very sorry.  The promise of vengeance ran through his mind, no one used a Holmes like this.


	3. John

‘He says he’ll be here in ten, do you want a coffee?’

 John met Greg’s eyes over his desk and considered how thoroughly he wanted to punch his onetime friend. He had been dragged out of the surgery for this, some illusion created by a criminal or some prank played by a vindictive officer. It could not be real, it was cruel and the fact Greg seemed so determined to go along with it offered John no comfort. Greg had been drowning in guilt, the dark rings under his eyes, tobacco stains on his fingers and the general manic energy that comes from too much coffee and not enough sleep made it oh so obvious. He wondered if Greg was haunted by Sherlock too, whether the image of his flatmate flashed behind his eyes when he closed them at night. The nightmares had returned in full force and he knew he was slowly sinking back into the depression his life post war had consisted of. But it was like that, like coming back from war, being without Sherlock, being without his brilliant mind and the excitement which followed in his wake.

‘No I don’t want coffee, I want to know who’s doing this and why in reality you are so desperate for this to be true.’ He wasn’t certain he’d meant for the words to leave his mouth but the truth of the sentiment was clear both in his mind and in his tone. His moment of panic earlier, the declaration that Mycroft Holmes would not take custody of this child had surprised him but in truth it came more from the desire for this poor girl to be left in peace than anything else. Imagining the test she would be subjected to if there was even a hint that this story was true disturbed him. He didn’t need the guilt of another person’s life on his shoulders.

They sat in silence then, Greg’s only answer to his question was a sigh followed by a mug of coffee placed in front of John that he did not want. Why couldn’t he just leave? There was no reason for him to be here. He could leave, before Mycroft arrived and they had yet another awkward encounter. John wasn’t drunk this time. He wouldn’t throw another punch, even if it hadn’t connected with him, Mycroft’s reaction, holding him up when he lost balance, pouring him into a car and having him driven home, didn’t make John any more eager to face the elder Holmes glinting eyes. They’d all let Sherlock down, every one of them, but Mycroft with all his connections, how could Mycroft not have saved him, how could he not have stopped this, John just couldn’t understand it. But he could leave; he could stand up right now and walk out of the station. This situation didn’t concern him and he wouldn’t add anything to the conversation, he had no theories, no ideas, his brain was a veritable soup of stray thoughts and images but nothing concrete, nothing to help solve this mystery.

‘Greg I’m going to leave now.’

‘What no, no you can’t, Mycroft will be here in a few minutes John, and then we need to decide what to do with her.' Greg rose from his seat behind the desk, he moved towards the door as if he could block John if he really wanted out, 'Come on you can't leave, just stay and listen, and then, then maybe you can meet her. You could look after her John.’

‘What. Greg no. No I can’t. Jesus is that why I’m here, you’re going to try and make me look after some poor kid you found on a job.’ He couldn't accept any reality where this child was Sherlock's because, and John knew this for certain, if she was he would never let her go,

‘It’s Sherlock’s kid John, why wouldn't you look after her.’ The more Greg insisted the more John pulled away, hope was such a dangerous thing, he had always allowed it to overpower him but he could stay strong this time,

'Because I could never be good enough Greg,' John had always believed Mycroft Holmes had impeccable timing, both bad timing and good, but either way it was impeccable, he entered the office,just in time to hear John's dejected response, his emotions firmly hidden behind the neutral shield both the brothers had shown on so many occasions. John remembered it last from the encounter on Mycroft's doorstep;

_‘How could you do this, how could you leave him alone, how could you let him die!’_

_‘John please control yourself this is my home, not a zoo.’_

_‘Fuck you, you stupid ass man, you stupid, selfish dick of a man’_

That was the moment he’d thrown his first punch, he had missed connecting with his face because Mycroft had quicker reflexes than anyone would have imagined. He’d not seen him since and yet here he stood, witnessing John’s anger once again but this time not directed at him, directed instead at the wide eyed, silver haired police officer he’d once so admired.

‘Mr Holmes, please take a seat,’ Greg drew himself to standing taller, straighter than John had seen him since he'd arrived. The smile he wore was a small one but he could see through the man’s eyes just how honest it was. So here, maybe, was the answer, Greg wanted to make Mycroft happy and a new Holmes child might do that.God that poor girl, he returned his gaze to the picture. 

This little girl, she looked so small, John couldn’t see her being much older than two and it broke his heart to think someone so small had been somewhere so horrid. That there were people out there who would hurt someone as innocent as this child, the idea was beyond him. God what was wrong with him, he was growing attached to a picture, to the idea of a child, oh but this was so like Sherlock, he always managed to draw John in with the smallest details,

_Could be dangerous - SH_

Always, right from the start, the man had been able to bring John into his plans. This whole scene was so perfectly dramatic that John could just imagine Sherlock orchestrating it.

He could hear the other members of this room talking, their voices were raised but he wasn't paying close enough attention to catch their meaning.  Greg was so certain this child was Sherlock’s, but she just couldn’t be. It wasn’t that John didn’t believe Sherlock could have a child, of course if he had been so inclined he could have, people were always falling over themselves to get close to him, men and women offered themselves on silver platters all before he spoke a single word to them, they'd attended a party once John remembered, something thrown in their honor; a thank you from a wealthy and youth obsessed dowager they had saved from matricide, during the steady stream of guests and handshakes five phone numbers had been slipped into Sherlock's tuxedo jacket, John remembered feeling such jealousy at that but Sherlock had dismissed the entire evening,

_'Why in heavens would I care John, goldfish the lot of them. Wealth and youth obsessed goldfish, not a one of them would have offered these strings of numbers if you'd allowed me to deduce them, but no, that's a bit not good isn't it'_

_'I don't see why anyone would be put off by watching your deductions it's,'_

_'Marvelous, fantastic, brilliant, yes I know John you remind me often' John remembered him smiling then, not the smile he'd worn all evening, the polite, slightly pained expression John associated with Sherlock repressing his intelligence._

 The man liked to remind John, like to say on a regular basis that people were attracted to him because they couldn’t see past the carefully crafted veneer he wore in public. John thought that was likely the case, it was only once you moved past Sherlock’s shell, once you examined him first thing in the morning, before he was preened and ready for the world, man was such a peacock sometimes, that you saw the reason someone could love him rather than simply want to shag his brains out.  Sherlock had always indicated that he’d never done that though, he was married to his work, or so he said, how could he possibly have a child. 

There were many things Sherlock didn’t care about. Murder between adults, fraud, theft but he had never been able to stomach abuse, cruelty was not in his nature no matter what anyone said.  John knew that. So how could have a child that had existed in such a place and experienced things that made John's stomach turn. Could it be possible he didn’t know though. Could he have fathered a child and never realised.  God he might have, she’d been found in a drug den, if the mother had been a user, she could have met Sherlock on the streets, any number of ways, could have had a child and never found him. He’d become famous though, he’d become a national treasure for a short period, ‘the detective with a funny hat’, his picture was everywhere. Surely the mother would have come forwards then. Surely. He was about to make this point when he looked once more at the picture. The girl was small, inky black curls framing her face, eyes too big for her face looked straight at the camera, the precise shade and shape he remembered Sherlock’s being. He could see it now.He'd been staring at this picture for so long but he hadn't really seen it till now,

_'You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.'_

It was clear because John could see what Greg meant, he could observe the similarities the look of her; her face, that stare, even the bloody cupid bow lips, the pout was so perfectly Holmesian John wanted to laugh, hysterically, without breathing, but he couldn't because his only thought was, God but she looked like him. So beyond beautiful. 

‘John, John are you alright?’ Greg was stood beside him, hand gripping his arm as if John was about to fall. He looked at the pair of them breifly, noting how Mycroft had yet to remove his overcoat, but he’d stood without knowing, his body shaking, he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs but he couldn’t stop staring at this little girl.  He could hear a high pitched noise, similar to when you left the kettle on the stove once it had boiled, that high pitched, soul splitting shriek, the noise was coming from him but it was happening without concious thought. He was certain he was about to throw up, his stomach may be empty but it was making a valiant effort to bring something up. He couldn’t control his tears, couldn’t control his shaking and couldn’t control himself. He thrust the paper at Mycroft and he felt nothing but a dull throb of horror running through him, the knowledge there was a little girl in the world with the DNA of the best man he’d ever known, the best friend he’d ever had, the one person in all the world he believed in without doubt. She was real, she was here and she could never know the man responsible for her existence.

He was curled on the floor now, his head resting against his raised knees, he could sense the other two close by but he didn't have the energy to raise his head, he felt like the worst of his grief was repeating itself, the numbness seeping back into his body through his toes first, ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked the room at large, his voice soft but certain, he bought his shaking undercontrol.He needed his strength now, 

‘John it’s not that simple, we cannot be certain she is his, not yet.’

‘Look at her Mycroft, just look.’

‘John I know you want this to be true but’

‘JUST FUCKING LOOK AT HER MYCROFT’ he’d not expected his voice to rise, not expected the horror to morph into an anger so violent he couldn’t see straight, he wanted to hurt someone, someone had hurt this little girl, the child of his best friend and he wanted to hurt them. Wanted to end them. 

Mycroft was just staring at the image, his eyes moved across the face seeming to catalogue her features, no doubt comparing them to Sherlock’s when he’d been the same age. He’d see it John knew he would but he didn’t want to wait to do something. Seconds were slipping by and the idea of this child being with someone besides the three of them was killing him. Was she with someone who had known Sherlock, someone who believed he was a fraud, John couldn't have that, he wouldn't have her hearing those things about Sherlock. 

‘Take me to her Greg.’

‘Wait John, are you sure?’

‘Yes, now, let’s go’

‘Mycroft are you coming’

‘That doesn’t matter right now Greg, she needs us.’ He looked at the older Holmes brother, saw the eyes scanning the image, the slowly dawning panic,

'Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,'

John said it quietly, he knew Mycroft would recognise it, Sherlock had said that constantly, muttered it under his breath so often it became a mantra to John, whenever their world became too much, this was what he took comfort it.He took the remaining steps to the door, no one stopped him, he walked to the elevator, no one stopped him,  he stood waiting when Greg came out of his office, leaving the door open for the remaining inhabitant he shrugged his jacket on and made the straighten his tie. In John’s opinion it meant nothing but John knew Greg had long since stopped caring for that.

 


	4. 221B

John could hardly be surprised when Mycroft’s private secretary stopped them on the way to Greg’s car, if he hadn’t been anticipating it he supposed he would have done something other than climb into the back and wait, his patience may be lacking but he understood that in getting this little girl out of police care and with people who would love and nurture her, Mycroft would be essential. The man himself joined the other three occupants of the car without a word, Anthea tapped the glass divider and the car rolled into motion. She never looked up from the blackberry and John had to admit he had never been sure exactly what role she played for Mycroft, his assumption of secretary came from her constant presence and ability to get the man moving, but in truth she could have any role; could be his wife for all John really knew.

No one was speaking, the car moved through London smoothly but John couldn’t tell which direction they were heading in, his attention span was limited with his thoughts continuing to return to the face of the little girl . When the car stopped he moved before thinking, opening the door onto a road he knew, he spun to observe the black door of 221b Baker Street and couldn’t quite bring himself to move. He hadn’t been back here in three months and had thought never to again. Why were they here?

He needed to know her name he thought, referring to her as the child was wrong. She wasn’t just a child, she was Sherlock’s blood and she was, well she was someone, she deserved a name and he felt he deserved to know what it was. Mycroft and Greg had climbed out of the opposite car door, moving to the black door of 221b Mycroft entered, without knocking John noted, and proceeded to hold the door for Greg who only hesitated long enough to look to John, he knew he was being foolish in not moving. To stand in the road and cling to the door of the black car was beyond pathetic but his legs wouldn’t work. He’d left this place, this shrine of memories. He was back in a bedsit, minimal possessions, no endless clutter, no dust, no character, no soul, no anything, but this place was so like a graveyard to him, so full of memories. Why would Mycroft bring him back here?

‘Dr Watson,’ Anthea called from inside the car, she was still staring at her blackberry but that had long since stopped bothering John, ‘You should go into the house sir with them sir. Mycroft, he means for you to care for this little girl and she is going to need a home. Where better than here, her Father’s sanctuary.’ John considers her words as he stares to the door, Mycroft and Greg have entered the shadows of the interior and John can no longer see them. 

‘I can’t do this.’ The words passed through his lips without thought, so quiet he isn't convinced she can hear him.

‘You can because you must’ She looks up, there was no smile on her face but the look in her eyes makes John believe her. He doesn't know her, didn't even know her real name but for some reason he believed her. Perhaps it was blind hope or more likely even blinder panic.

***

Mycroft had been about to step back into the street and drag John Watson in by his ear. He was entirely at sea and the good Doctor needed to pull it together because in reality only one of them could stand to have a break down at this particular moment and Mycroft was resigning himself to being the owner of that descent into madness. This entire afternoon was a nightmare. A nightmare he had never been prepared for.  This was not one of the magnitudes of ways he had ever anticipated his brother messing up.  He had never once considered Sherlock impregnating some drug fueled woman and producing a child. Dear God a child, Mummy was going to have yet another fit of hysterics and his father was not going to thank him for that. A genius his mother may be but emotionally stable she was not. 

One may wonder why Mycroft Holmes had never considered this eventuality, well in all honesty because his brother was gay. He had always been gay. He had always excelled at keeping secrets, but this was never one Sherlock had needed too, with the added experience of performing on stage his brother had adopted the moniker;

_The whole world is a stage Brother Mine_

Just the memory was enough to set Mycroft on edge. Sherlock had worn a mask for the world to see and he’d done it well. He’d only seen it slip a handful of times and it saddened him that he did not truly know the man his brother had become. There had been too much history between them at the end, but John, John had known Sherlock, his friendship making his brother a better man and so when the question really came down to who Sherlock would have wanted caring for his child, the answer was obvious, it would never have been Mycroft, it would only ever have been John Watson. How this child had come to be, he may never know, he did intend to search for the mother but he was uncertain as to where to start and the child was young enough that communication would be difficult. It did not truly matter though where she had come from, she was a Holmes by blood and he had come to realise, over the time he had been in John and Sherlock’s company, that if there was one thing a Holmes would need to be happy it was a Watson.

John moved sluggishly away from the car, Mycroft watched him walk with a slight limp towards the house he knew John had been avoiding, but this to his mind was where this little girl would needed to call home.

‘Come inside John’ he left the doorway and moving back into the darkened corridor where D.I. Lestrade had been watching the battle of wills from a few steps up the staircase. The light crooning of a radio could be heard coming from the properties other occupant, one Mrs. Hudson, former client of Sherlock, former exotic dancer, former drug barons’ wife, she was always an interesting character, who overall filled the role of mother hen for all those she deemed worthy. Her love would be a valuable tool in the coming months and Mycroft would do what was necessary to keep her happy.  

He had a niece, a niece with no name. That would need to be altered as soon as possible. Most likely John would need to pick it but Mycroft should have some influence he reasoned. Something proper; Elizabeth, Francesca, Monica, Belinda all strong choices, family names, his own mother’s name Violet would have to be an option. He was pulled out of his musings by the voice of the good doctor, no strong emotion was indicated but he hadn’t moved far past the doorway, enough to close it certainly but not further,

‘I am sorry John I would appear to have missed your question.’

‘I said what changed your mind? One second you were saying it was impossible and now. Now we’re stood in the hallway to my former home and you’ve yet to explain a damned thing.’

The last part of the question, or more statement, Mycroft thought was loud enough to draw notice, sure enough the music coming from the downstairs flat quietened. He had hoped to discuss the situation with John and Gregory without Mrs Hudson so he could judge exactly what her attitude to children would be, without the pressure of an audience, he supposed that option was now no longer available.

‘Well Dr Watson in answer to your question,’ he pulled the folded paper out of his pocket and passed it to the Doctor. ‘This photograph changed my mind.’

Accepting the photograph John gives it a lingering glance before stating ‘Explain’,  perhaps his brother had left a mark on their friendship after all.

‘It will be easier to show you but for that we will need to be upstairs,’ the door behind them creaked open ‘Good afternoon Mrs Hudson’

‘Mycroft is that you? Why didn’t you say you were coming dear, I would have made us some tea.’

‘I am afraid dear Mrs. Hudson that this was not a planned outing, there have been some interesting developments in my late brother’s life and now I need access to his home, for reasons that will shortly become obvious. I am not alone however.’

‘Oh is that so, who have you bought?’ light flooded the entryway and the elderly woman gasped at the small group of men in her hallway. ‘John’ her hand flew to her mouth and Mycroft was certain the tears would come next, sighing he decided that none of this was going to plan but he might as well continue as if it were. He started up the stairs, they would simply have to be a group of four and Mycroft would deal with the results of their discussion later. All would be well if Mrs Hudson agreed but there was of course the possibility she would find the whole business of child rearing distasteful. She had never had children herself and perhaps the reason was because she was not fond of them, removing a set of keys from his pocket he swept his way into a room that had once been the centre of his brothers home.

The group followed quietly, with Mrs Hudson clucking under her breath about needing proper time to air the flat for visitors, opening the shutters as she moved about the room she illuminated its ever present features, the furniture around the room was covered in dust sheets but the books on the shelves were in perfect order. Even the skull remained in place; the original skull, Mycroft remembered, had broken years before but his brother had been skilled at finding suitable replacements. The whole room swam with memories of Sherlock, it was no surprise to Mycroft when John refused to enter, he stood on the threshold observing and scanning for changes. Nothing had moved, Mycroft paid Mrs Hudson to maintain the property, paid her to allow this shrine to his brother to continue. Mycroft supposed it was sentiment but he could not find it in himself to care.

‘So then, I believe you had a story to share Mister Holmes.’ The lone voice interrupted the contemplations of the room’s other residents, Gregory Lestrade had removed one of the dust sheets from an armchair, John's he noticed and sat himself upon it crossing his ankles.

‘Indeed I do Detective Inspector but first' he turns to the only woman in the room 'Mrs Hudson, in approximately two hours a good many men will be arriving to remove certain items and place them in storage, it will be up to  Doctor Watson to decide which bedroom he will now occupy, however there will need to be room made for the arrival of bedroom items appropriate for a young child.’ Mrs Hudson’s gasp as she rounded on John seemed to pull him out whatever deep thoughts he'd been lost in.

‘You have a child John?’ John looks back slightly dazed, 

‘I, sorry, what was that Mrs Hudson?’

‘Yes, Mrs Hudson as of a few hours ago Dr Watson has become the guardian of a new ward. She is yet to have a first name but as of today her last will be Holmes. Although perhaps Dr Watson would prefer something hyphenated.’ Receiving no reaction from the doctor he chose the continue ‘You see it would appear my brother managed to leave a legacy in the form of a young girl, her existence was unknown to us until the Detective Inspector here' he turns to indicate his silver haired companion, 'liberated her from her one time home, a drug den, where, I am led to believe, she was at the mercy of some of the lowest forms of humanity. It is imperative, as I’m sure you will understand, that she be allowed the proper chance of a fully nurturing and loving home. For that purpose, as the executor of my brothers estate, I have charged her care to Dr Watson.’ The silence of the room would be referred to as oppressive if it had not been for the murmurings of the landlady.

Mrs Hudson addressed the room at large ‘How old is she? This child?’

The detective inspector chose to answer,

‘She would appear to be around two years old Mrs Hudson although we cannot be sure.’

‘How can a two year old not have a name? Surely her mother gave her one?’

‘We have found no mother and so far the child has been unable to communicate her name to us’

‘Oh the poor dove, when will she arrive, she’ll need the proper things, food, toys, clothes, oh there’s always so much to do with children’

‘Not to fret Mrs Hudson, it would appear Mycroft has it all underway’ the words of the Detective Inspector would have bought a smile to his face, if he had not currently been observing John Watson going into shock. This would never do.

‘Doctor Watson, you should probably enter the living room now.’  Perhaps orders were the way to reach the former army man. He had never responded to them well before but Mycroft hoped there could be a first time for everything. Instead John noticeably bristled.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ the voice was quiet but no one would deny the presence of anger in it.

‘I am afraid I do not follow John, which part are you referring to?’

‘How about the part where I’m now to be responsible for another human being? I know nothing about children? How am I supposed to raise one? How am I supposed to love someone when I can’t even love myself? You haven’t even told me how you now know she’s his? How Mycroft? You can’t swan in here and demand I change my life because you suddenly have someone else you need me to care for!’

‘That is precisely what I am doing and precisely what you will be doing.’

‘How dare you make assumptions like that, how dare you, don’t you understand that I can’t do this, I can’t be here, not without him, I CAN NOT BE HERE WITHOUT HIM.’

‘Oh John’ Mrs Hudson are the only words to fill the room for several minutes after John's exclamation,

‘John you were the first to see her for who she was, just from her picture,’ he waves a hand towards the D.I. but he means for it to indicate the police as a whole, ‘they had DNA evidence but that can be wrong, it can be fabricated, we both know that,but that picture, that picture is true, I checked surveillance images on our way here and they show the same child, when she arrives the similarities will be more pronounced but until then let me show you how I knew,' he pulls his wallet from his coat pocket and reveals a small photograph, as he holds it out to him John sees the image Mycroft is sharing, there's a child dressed in a pirates costume, a captains hat too big for him balanced lopsidedly as the child climbs into a small boat while grinning at the camera,

‘He’s so young.’ It's all John seems to be able to say,

‘Yes he was, he was four in that image, he went through a distinct pirate phase and we once spent a summer trying to build a boat’ The memory is a pleasant one, even if the resulting capsize had put him off small water vessels to this day, ‘tell me you do not see the similarities, tell me I am wrong in this.’ There's silence for a long while, John continues to soak up the picture like a drowning man, desperate for any new piece of Sherlock knowledge he can have.

‘I can’t,’ having now entered the room John’s knees seem to give out around the edge of the sofa. ‘What do we do?’

‘You need to pick a bedroom, a name and then you need to accept your impending fatherhood’ John laughs at that, Mycroft is being entirely honest, but he can sense the edge of panic in the man’s tone.

‘Is that it then? You’ve decreed and therefore it will be?’ he can see the tears threatening but he is set on this. It must be John Watson and the reason is clear. Moving forwards the seats himself on the table so he and John can be on the same level.

‘She is a scared and traumatised child. She will need warmth, comfort and safety. She will need love. Just as Sherlock did. I trusted you with the most precious thing in my world once before and you never once failed him or me,' he tries to smile but the pain is too close to the forefront of his mind, 'You are the only person on this planet who can do this John, who can make her the person she could have been if Sherlock had been here, because you, you are the only one who knew him, knew the whole of him. He needed you more than you will ever know, you saved him and now you will save her.’

‘I couldn’t save him though, he’s dead and he’s gone’

‘Nonsense, even you could not heal all the damage the years before you caused.He was so lost John and you found him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because every Holmes needs a Watson of their own.’


	5. These Women

****‘John I would seriously suggest you focus on a name, it was distressing you earlier that people kept referring to her as ‘The Girl’ or ‘The Child’ so pick one, she is young enough that the change, although strange, should not cause her any great distress and if she is able to communicate her unknown name to us later on well then, but I must admit I think the estimate of her age is wrong Detective Inspector’

Lestrade stopped part way through taking a sip of tea, Mrs Hudson had bustled downstairs proclaiming a need for tea and cleaning equipment;

_‘It just won’t do to have a child in all this mess John and do be a dear and pick a room for the little lamb, we’ll need to decide where to store Sherlock’s equipment you know.’_

‘Well the estimate was made by the paramedics and doctors who’ve been treating her. To be honest with you I know very little about children myself. She does look a bit old to be called a baby though.’

‘Sherlock was always a tall child, I have wondered if she might be younger than anticipated, my guess is that once our good doctor gets a solid look at her we will know for certain. But until then by my reckoning she is under two.’

‘But how can that be me and Sherlock were together for nearly that long and I never saw a woman anywhere near him. He said he was married to his work Mycroft. I just don’t understand this.’ John had been barely following the conversation his mind full of girl’s names;

_Susan, Claire, Martha, Holly, Danielle_

None of them struck him as special enough however, the Holmes men seemed to have such original names, did the women? Should he be selecting something to fit their expectations. But the question and mystery of this child’s creation were a source of anxiety for him. The idea of Sherlock and some faceless woman made his stomach clench, the less he analysed those feelings to more he’d be able to sleep at night.

‘Ah well the question is, John do you know about Sherlock’s final stay in a rehabilitation centre,’ Mycroft continued with his tea, the information he was sharing touched a deeply personal portion of Sherlock’s life yet here they were discussing it over tea. John felt himself sneering; the desire to tell Mycroft he’d caused enough damage by sharing Sherlock’s secrets already on the tip of his tongue, but this was a story he wanted to hear, even if It meant betraying his memory of Sherlock, he needed data and to be honest with himself he wanted to know more about the man he’d lost. So he held his tongue and allowed himself to make eye contact with Mycroft once more.

‘I will take your silence as a no John, Gregory do you need to return to the station or are you staying for this tale? I must admit it is not a very long one.’

‘Thanks, I’m happy to stay put, if you are alright with me being here of course’ Inclining his head in recognition Mycroft continued.

‘Just over three years ago Sherlock took himself off grid, he’d done this occasionally taking himself out of my surveillance as a way of proving himself smarter than me, but usually I found him quickly.' He took a slightly deeper drink from his cup before putting the cup down, 'The drug problem started in university you see, Sherlock came to London to live independently from the family but instead of the intellectual equals he’d been promised by our mother he found himself surrounded by fools, temptation and boredom. As the spray painted image above John's head proves my brother has never dealt with boredom well, university i'm afraid to say proved to be no different.’ Taking a sip of tea again Mycroft loosened his tie while crossing his legs in front of him. He had stopped making eye contact with either of them a sentence in and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to recommence it. This was a narrative to him and one he clearly did not enjoy revisiting.

‘I have always imagined sex was something he did high, the only mentions of it he ever made were in reference to tripping on some form of substance and certainly the only boyfriend any of us ever became aware of was a scoundrel called Victor. He was arrested on numerous occasions with large amounts of cocaine in his possession. The first time Sherlock overdosed Victor was the one to leave him propped against the doors of the local A & E department. I saw it later over the hospitals surveillance. He dragged him out of the back of a car and, after leaving him against the building, the man threw a shirt over my brother's chest. It was January, to say it proved to be an inappropriate amount of coverage would be an overstating of the state of this shirt.’

Jesus Christ did John need a drink, pacing seemed like the only thing to do here but he couldn’t find the energy to move his legs.

‘I’m sure John will tell you the dangers of treating withdrawal while your patient is already ill, but I digress, so yes, sex for Sherlock would appear to have been linked to his consumption of drugs. My understanding was that he was gay, but perhaps that was wrong, we never discussed our sexuality and Sherlock never strove to share a confession. He merely was himself, in the same way I am, our parents never cared who we dated as long as they could hold a decent conversation and made some form of effort not to bore them, yes our impatience is a family trait John best try to wheedle your influence into this young girl early in order to avoid it. To return to the premise however, Sherlock had vanished and managed to stay out of my notice for a year, although I searched for him continuously. You will of course know of his homeless network, they hide their own when they need to and at that time Sherlock considered me his enemy.  It was to my great surprise when a month after the year anniversary of his disappearance he showed up in one of the country’s leading substance abuse rehabilitation centres. He had placed himself in their hands for treatment and for once it seemed to take, he never confided in me the reason for this sudden decision to leave cocaine behind and I maintain to this day that he has never been truly free of it. But, for the time that he lived with you John, I do not believe he used, we all remember danger nights I am certain, but there was never an indication he gave into that temptation again. I should have had more faith in him.’

There was still no answer, there were new details about Sherlock, new details about the drugs and the company Sherlock kept but nothing about the child, not that he could see, debating whether or not to point this out John was caught off guard by Greg posing the question;

‘But how does that end up with there being a child, if you’re right and Sherlock didn’t like sex unless he was high? She could have been conceived at any point in that year’

‘She could have, I acknowledge that, however it has always struck me as odd the timing of Sherlock’s actions as well as the manner, he made the effort to get clean and I imagine this is why. This child, perhaps not in a solid form but the idea of her, of a child, my brother may have worn a facade of ice but he adored children, their natural curiosity and sense of adventure, he would have jumped at the chance to be a father, lost his heart over the idea of his child being in the world. I do not doubt this.’

‘So you think he knew? About her and he left her anyway?’ the volume of John’s words shock him, by all rights he should be shouting, he’s been bundled with the responsibility of another human life and all because his best friend was apparently too selfish to be the father his brother thinks he could have been.

‘I do not pretend to know John, I cannot imagine he would have allowed her to exist within the place she did. Perhaps he lost track of the mother during his stay and believed them missing? We will never know what we do know is that in a short amount of time delivery men will be arriving to remove a bed from one of the bedrooms. Your daughter is going to need a bedroom and you will need your space.  If you allow Anthea the key to your current residents she will arrange for your belongings to be brought here.’

There’s no objection John can think of which does not sound petty and so he hands Mycroft his key as he braces himself to face the room he hasn't stayed in for months. He counts the stairs as he ascends them remembering the loose floorboard and the step which sits slightly out of sync with the others, meaning someone unsuspecting is liable to trip. John had used this to his advantage with a few dates ending up catching them and pulling them close, it had worked surprisingly well on the odd occasion dates decided to stick around after a Sherlock meeting.

The room stands empty, a black canvas without the photographs, books and assorted writing supplies he’d littered the space with when he’d been its resident. It left him cold, the whole idea of living in this space without Sherlock made him nauseous, having to face the idea of walking down these stairs every morning and face an empty space did not appeal.  He could almost hear the violin music that filled the flat when he’d tucked himself away for the night, nights filled with nightmares of hot deserts and the heavy weight of war had left him breathless until he’d heard the chords of his flatmates musical ministrations. It never occurred to him while Sherlock was living to bring attention to the private concerts meant for him alone, but he missed them now, now the nightmares were different and there was no comfort, musical or otherwise. He couldn't stay in this room, it would have to be the nursery, which left him with the reality of staying in Sherlock’s room, inhabiting his space, a room he’d held as a private sanctum in life and now John felt like an invading force, but there was nothing for it, the baby needed somewhere to sleep and John wouldn't sleep in this room.

Descending the stairs he poked his head into the sitting room only to witness the two men sitting with their knees touching, Mycroft his head clasped in the palms of his hands, Lestrade had moved to touch the slightly younger mans shoulders. John wondered how he’d missed this relationship, this interaction between two people he’d thought to know. Moving backwards as silently as possible he called from the corridor, hopefully creating the illusion of the pairs continued privacy, that Mycroft should instruct his men to remove the bed from the top bedroom. He was only slightly surprised to hear Greg’s voice answer in Mycroft’s place;

‘Ok John, Anthea said she’ll have your belongings delivered at the same time.’

‘Sure thanks’, he’d just turned towards the bedroom once more when he noticed Mrs Hudson on her hands and knees scrubbing the bathtub. Tears streaked her face and she was scrubbing with such ferocity John was sure the old bath would end up with dents. Moving to her side he said her name quietly, watching as the older woman exhaled deeply and turned to him. Her eyes were bloodshot but there was a faint smile upon her face.

‘We need it to be perfect, don't we John, for this little girl we need to make her life just perfect, for him as well as for her, he would have wanted that.’

‘I’m sure you’re right Mrs Hudson but, I’m not sure your hip or this old bath tub is going to thank you for scrubbing it to within an inch of damage. Come on, you should be drinking tea and helping me pick baby names, not alone in here, you are after all not our housekeeper.’ At that his land lady smiled a little more brightly and took his hand, she was only slightly unsteady on her feet as he accompanied her back to the living room. The somewhat intimate moment he had interrupted earlier seemed to have come to an end, John was glad to see Mycroft maintaining his composure, it would be more difficult to make important decisions if he wasn’t. 

Ensuring Mrs Hudson was seated comfortably he turned to Sherlock's brother, best just to ask the questions that had been causing him concern, ‘Mycroft do the Holmes family have any traditions when It comes to naming children, I only ask because both you and your brother have such distinctive names, I would hate to step on anyone’s toes with my choice.’

Mycroft smiled slightly at this, almost as if he had not expected John to be thoughtful in this, ‘The choice is yours to make, Sherlock’s name at birth was William, but he disliked it, Sherlock was the name of an eccentric uncle of ours, he descended through my father’s line and Sherlock spent many summers with him on the family’s bee farm in Sussex. When he was old enough to choose, for Sherlock that occurred at seven, he required all members of the family and his school to refer to him by his middle name, Sherlock. I am named after my Grandfather, again on my father’s side and yes that is tradition.’

‘So should she be being named after your mother then, if that is the tradition?’

‘Lord no, although i'm sure she will be glad you considered it, Sherlock would have detested the idea. Not that he didn't love our mother, more that naming a child in a traditional manner would have upset his rebellion’ That left john still pondering the list he had been creating in his head, he didn't want anything too modern, he came from a family which honored the names of people that had been important to one of the parents, perhaps he could come to a combination of someone important to him and someone important to Sherlock, or Sherlock's family perhaps. He decided he did rather like the idea of a double barrelled last name as well.

Mrs Hudson, who had been brought a fresh cup of tea by Greg, addressed Mycroft,

‘So who was your brother named after, his birth name I mean, William is such a nice name.’

‘Ah well you see,’ the slight pink flush appearing on Mycroft’s cheeks bought the attention of the entire group. Clearing his throat Mycroft continued, ‘My parents had thought Sherlock would be a girl, the name they had selected for their perceived female child was Wilhelmina, the name of my father’s favourite aunt, a woman my mother had adored, they were rather set on the idea so when Sherlock appeared in the world as a rather skinny, screaming, baby boy they decided to continue to honor her by using the masculine form of her name, hence William.’

John couldn't stop himself from giggling, the idea of Sherlock being outraged by being named after an aunt provided him with more joy then he’d experienced in months, he’d imagined sitting and discussing Sherlock with people who knew him would be painful but in reality the pain, although present, was lacking its sharpness thanks to the company he was keeping.

‘Tell me about this woman, why did your mother love her?’ John thought it had potential,

‘My mother came to this country having spent her life  as a French academic, for two decades her life had revolved around physics and the brilliance of science. Upon arriving in England, already married and pregnant, she was faced with the stifling customs of the upper classes and a family ingrained with the importance of social standing. My father you see followed his love for the study Botany to Lille, where they met and to my mother's recollections at least my father seduced her away from her love of science with passion and rare flowers, I have to admit that at this point I normally chose to exit the room, but the story of my father’s aunt is closely related, she lived in a cottage just down the road from the main portion of our estate in Yorkshire, a place my parents were encouraged to stay by my grandparents, my mother grew fond of walking the distance in order to escape the controls of that house.' Mycroft shook his head at the memory, perhaps he to was seeing the similarities in the woman he described and Sherlock, 'My great aunt welcomed her with love and an eccentricity my mother has always claimed made her seem more French. She would bake for her, tell her tales of her travels and foreign lovers of youth and for those few months my mother had a sanctuary. However Six months into her pregnancy my mother was placed on bedrest and trips to her little hideaway were forced to come to an end, that is until said Great aunt commanded my father bring her and a box with her one afternoon to visit. Upon being left alone with my mother she revealed that the box contained all the equipment my mother would need to conduct minor experiments while confined to her bed and a telescope so she would watch the stars from the window box in their room. My mother never forgot her kindness. She died when I was young, only five years old but she was a wonderful woman Aunt Mina; I know my mother still misses her a great deal.’

Everyone seems to have been touched by this retelling, Sherlock's mother reminded him so strongly of Sherlock that he had an urge to meet her he'd never have imagined before, as for the caring older woman, who swept in to provide love and devotion, he knew someone else like that, ‘Then it’s settled, I have a name for the latest Miss Holmes, Mina Louise Holmes.  One name for Holmes family tradition and one to represent the woman who blessed both me and Sherlock with love and sanctuary during our time together.’ John turned to the woman next to him; she’d been more of a mother to him over the past year and a half than his own had been for the last ten. She’d meant the world to Sherlock and it was only right to honor her this way. The smile came easily to him even as he watched her dissolve into tears. From the looks the other occupants of the room were wearing he had made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so we're 5 chapters in and still there's no baby but I swear next chapter, Mina will appear.


	6. Meeting Mina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi just a minor warning, slight mention to child abuse, nothing graphic but the mention of it so if that triggers you then the section of speech starts 'Doctor Watson, you need to understand...' and it occurs towards to end. Stay happy lovely people, MJ X

‘So tell me Mr Watson what experience do you have with children?’ The social worker had yet to sit down; he continued to make circuits of the living space downstairs, His clipboard and pen his constant companions held so closely to his chest that John was transported back to his second year of school when his neighbour James had lain both his arms on the desk between them chanting ‘No cheating, no cheating’, he remembers getting a better mark on that spelling test and leaving his paper in the middle of the desk to show off a little. James hadn’t spoken to him after that, the little redhead clearly not taken with the idea of John being more intelligent.

‘I have been a doctor for a good while now as I’m sure your notes say, when I’ve worked in the clinic a lot of my patients have been children.’

‘I’m not asking about your medical training, I’m asking about what experience you have caring for children, raising them, being a parent effectively. Just being a doctor isn’t enough, you need to know how to provide this child with a home Mr Watson.’

Every time the man calls him Mr Watson John nearly throws a punch, he’s wound up pretty tight from the overwhelming developments of the day and to now have this cheap man in an even cheaper suit evaluate his home and judge his ability to be a father, is putting him one step closer to the edge of violence. But John knows punching this tiny tiny man would do him no good, it could potentially lose him the chance of having Mina, so instead he grits his teeth and doesn’t force his medical licence down the man’s throat.

‘I have a sister and when I was growing up I did a great deal of childcare, it is true that I haven’t spent too much time around children socially over the past, let us say, five years but that’s more because I don’t have many friends with children, honestly my experience is limited,’ the look Greg is shooting him makes him think the decision to be completely honest was not a wise one, ‘but I will say this, I’m a quick learner, I've proven my ability to adapt by going from Student to Doctor to Army doctor, and then returning to civilian life and becoming a General Practitioner. I adapt well and I have learnt  to fulfil the roles my career has thrown at me. Raising a child is different I agree,’ he’s cut Mr Suit off there before the obvious rebuttal, remembering himself he doesn’t roll his eyes at the man , ‘but I have also spent a great deal of time caring for people who needed that extra portion of devotion. This flat is full of memories of him doing just that, but it hadn't started with Sherlock, 'My sister is an alcoholic and I’ve never stopped caring for her, we have difficulties and I’ve learnt when to walk away but if she ever needed me, truly, I’d be there and my housemate, former housemate, he was,’ he pauses trying to come up with the perfect way to describe Sherlock, ‘he was one of the most strongly independent and individual people I’ve ever met and I couldn’t have cared for him more. I devoted a good portion of my life over the last two years to making and keeping him happy, and believe me when I say that Sherlock was never an easy person to provide for, he fought you every step of the way, but I would never have given up on him. I don’t give up on people.' This he feels might be the crux of the issue for him, Mina needs someone who'll never leave her alone again, 'This child, Mina, I’m never going to give up on her and I will also never give her up. She’s going to be my daughter, I’m going to give her anything and everything she needs; emotionally and physically. She will never be without love, and given her start to life don’t you think that’s more important than my ability to make the perfect bottle.' He's managed to rile himself up slightly, the frustration he's been feeling since the social worker entered 221b articulated in words rather than fists, 'I will learn how to do that; I will learn how to draw her bath and how to make her laugh when she cries. I will learn to be everything she needs me to be.’ his rant over John can only watch as Mr Suit look tilts his head before making numerous notes on his clipboard.

‘If someone will show me to the child’s room, I need to inspect the proposed sleeping area. Also I need to assess your level of preparedness in relation to recreational and practical tools, bottles, toys and the like.’

As if sensing John's rapidly depleting patience Mycroft comes forwards, ‘Why don’t I show you upstairs Mr Jones, as Mina’s uncle I will be in some way responsible for her as well. It would do us well to talk.’ Mycroft has his ice man mask on but if John looks closely he could swear he can see anger. Ducking his head he wonders vaguely if the anger is directed at him, his rant was unplanned and he supposes his comments about Sherlock might have made the stoic gentleman angry. As the two leave the living room John reclaims his seat on the sofa, Mrs Hudson bustles out of the kitchen, where she swears John didn’t find her scrubbing the dining table mercilessly. 

‘Well what a tool that man is! Honestly dismissing John in such a way, he’ll make a fine father, you will love and nothing some small man says will change that.’ If looks could kill John thinks the one Mrs Hudson is aiming at the ceiling would cause some serious damage to the social worker, ‘And he rifled through so many things, look at this mantelpiece, nothings as it should be, oh I could have smacked him.’

‘Now now Mrs Hudson, the man is doing his job you know.' If Greg realised how close that tone was to getting him cuffed round the ears John doubts he would have risked it, 'Besides John can take it, most likely be more difficult with a kid won’t it.' He's trying out his charming smile, John's seen him use it on people in interrigations before but he's underestimating Mrs Hudson's ability for righteous anger, 'You’ve just got to roll with the punches John, it’ll be worth it.’  Mrs Hudson not appreciating Greg’s candour looked to be holding back a retort as she began replacing the items on the mantelpiece; small pieces of a life John had lived with Sherlock, he couldn’t bring himself to look them over but knowing they’d been moved was equally painful. In the few weeks he’d lived here after Sherlock’s death he’d sat in this room nursing the bottles of scotch, whiskey and port they’d accumulated over experiments, lacklustre parties and the moments of Sherlock being Sherlock that had left John needing a strong drink.  He’d thrown the last of the bottles away the day Harry called and he was more drunk than she was, he’d returned to therapy instead and moved into the hovel of a bedsit he’d called home for a short time.  Ella was going to have some sort of fit when he got around to informing her about the upheaval in his life.

The sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs, coming down from the upstairs bedroom, bring John back into the present. There’s been no real sound since the two men had gone up to review what would become Mina’s bedroom; the realisation that this meant John’s would now be occupying Sherlock’s old room was something he repressed, how he would be able to exist in that space was beyond him. He’d failed to take it in earlier only stepping in to change his clothes before the social worker had descended and even those few moments of naked vulnerability in a room so inherently Sherlock had caused a deep routed ache in his stomach he couldn’t identify.

The two,fully suited men, came back to the room, although Mr Jones, the social worker, seemed unwilling to follow Mycroft, he stood wavering on the threshold and John wondered if the look the man now wore on his face was in any way similar to the one John had hours earlier. He supposed his had looked less like he was being forced to smell something decaying;

‘Dr Watson, I am pleased to inform you that I see no just reason why you cannot become legal guardian and adoptive parent to one Mina Louise Watson Holmes,  papers will be drawn up in the next few days to carry out a full and legal adoption in the courts. Any and all inheritance she is entitled to is to be held in trust for her, until such a time as yourself and her trusts executor Mycroft Holmes, deem it necessary, although legally it will be impossible for her to have full access until she turns eighteen, before this time an account will be set up in your name which will provide a living expense for the child. Do you have any questions regarding the details of this agreement?’

It was so clearly rehearsed that John felt the need to check for a prompter,

‘Dr Watson if you do not have any questions I shall take my leave of you. My colleague Lisa will be bring the child here within the next hour. She has spent the time between police involvement and now in the hospital; receiving treatment as well as being tested for multiple issues. We have very little understanding of her medical history as well as the history of her family, although we are now aware of the lineage on her father’s side her mother remains a mystery. Her treatment will continue until such a time as the state considers her to be physically well enough to be left in your hands. I imagine as a doctor you will have more of an understanding as to the treatments she will receive, however there is a legal need for them to be carried out by someone not related to the patient.’

John’s genuinely not sure what’s happening, he’d spent the entire time Mr Jones had been present certain that the badly dressed bastard was going to turn around and proclaim him to be unfit for fatherhood yet he was now being informed to expect daughters imminent arrival. 

‘Yes I understand and agree to the terms you just mentioned, do I need to sign anything now?’

‘Yes you are required to fill out and complete these forms, we have already been provided by most of your documents but these require your signature.’  He handed over all of three pieces of paper, John turned to find a pen amongst the clutter of the desks only to find Mycroft extending his own Montblanc towards him. He checked boxes, filled out the relevant personal information and added his signature before having the papers pulled out from under the still uncapped pen.

‘As stated previously Lisa will accompany Mina here at which point you will become responsible for the child, any questions you have can be directed to Lisa or if required myself, this is my card’ a small rectangle of white card is forced into Johns slightly limp hand, ‘feel free to call me with legal questions or queries about procedure. Congratulations Dr Watson, may you home be a happy one.’ And with that the tiny man in the terrible suit, with the terrible manners and the surprisingly tiny hands left.

John couldn’t put his finger on quite why he felt as if he’d been hit by a bus but that was the distinct impression he’d been left with.

‘Anyone else feel slightly in shock right now?’ it was Greg, he was voicing the same sentiment John was feeling but John couldn’t find words anymore. Articulation had left the building and in its place he’d been left staring blindly at a small pile of papers on the coffee table, that and the small rectangle of card that was slowly digger its corners into his palm.

‘What happened up there Mycroft?’

‘Nothing untoward I assure you Detective Inspector, I merely highlighted John’s admirable qualities and suggested he find it in his heart to allow my niece access to her home, which Baker Street now is.’  John didn’t believe a word and from the dubious look on Greg’s face Mycroft was fooling nobody. He couldn’t bring himself to care though; he was as of moments ago a father. Father to a child he’d never met and who he knew nothing about.  

‘I should go to the shop to make sure I have food and diapers, all the other stuff, god what about clothes I doubt she’s got any from the place she was before and I don’t think I’d want her in any of that anyway. She’s going to need so much stuff, I don’t have anything, I mean, I mean I honestly don’t have anything, Mrs Hudson is there even food in the fridge?’

‘Well no dear, no one’s been living here have they, the milk from earlier was mine, I don’t think you’ve even got tea here anymore.’  

Greg is leaning against the wall now, ‘There’s no way you can go shopping John, you need to be here.’ He looks to Mycroft for confirmation,

‘I quite agree, you have to be here for when Mina arrives. Food is something that can be ordered in or I have my people. Someone will be able to collect the things you need and bring them to you rather than you leaving the house.’

‘Or we could go.’ Greg’s voice is soft as if he half doesn't want anyone to hear the suggestion, ‘Me and Mycroft could go to the nearest store and get the stuff you want, just make a quick list, you can always take her out tomorrow or do one of those internet orders, but for right now why don’t we go and leave you to get yourself settled. You will probably want to unpack before she gets here’ it was a reasonable suggestion, the mildly confused look Mycroft was wearing aside, John thought it made sense. He went to check the cupboards and began his list. He thought to get a combination of formula and baby food, tea was always a priority, he imagined caffeine would play a massive part in the next years of his life and he only hoped the Yorkshire Gold would continue to carry him through as well as it did in the war.

Sending Greg off with his list and instructions to try and find some baby cutlery and bowls, he wondered what exactly Mycroft considered so amusing. John had never seen his eyes shine in the way he was now. He wondered quickly at what point he’d started seeing past Mycroft’s mask, he thought it might be after the confrontation on his doorstep but he tried valiantly to block that memory from his mind. In the future John would look at this moment as the first in a long line of hints that Mycroft never had been the Ice Man Moriarty believed him to be. 

With the front door closing solidly and Mrs Hudson taking herself off for a quick sit down in her own living room, John thought the whole experience may have taken more out of her than any of the rest of them, John was faced by an empty flat, he’d not been alone here for months but the space didn’t look as oppressive anymore. In all honesty the only place John felt uncomfortable was the room at the end of the corridor he was now facing. Truly accepting this space as his, removing Sherlock’s eclectic belongings and replacing them with his own seemed unfair somehow, insulting almost. He entered the room slowly, watching the dust motes swirl in the early evening light he tried to truly see the space objectively but it seemed impossible.

It was so inherently Sherlock, the sword on the wall, dark wooden frames holding antique pipes, silk slippers holding an ungodly amount of cigarettes, those he removed, it wouldn’t do to have little hands picking them up, framed scientific images; DNA structure and what John is certain is a copy of the molecular composition of cocaine, that could be thought of as rather disturbing; considering Sherlock’s addiction but John had to admit the formation of molecules was beautiful in its way.

He didn’t want to remove anything, didn’t want to disturb what had been Sherlock’s domain. He moved towards the closet finding it spacious but half full, the bottom of the cupboard full of shoes, some of which were missing partners but John thought he might find space for his three pairs somewhere. Maybe by getting rid of the ones without partners, it seemed like a good enough place to start. Choosing not to consider why Sherlock owned two pairs of stilettos, black with a red heel and dark blue, he removed those he deemed unnecessary, the slowly increasing pile fit comfortably into a black bin bag, placing his shoes in the gaps he turned to the dresser. He didn’t have many clothes that would require hanging but he would need draw space. Clearing the top draws of underwear and socks was simple enough; no consideration was really necessary for those but upon opening the second John found himself forcing down a broad smile.   

The draw was full to bursting with costumes, more appropriately disguises, he recognised some; the hideous traffic warden outfit, the more memorable fireman and something that looked to closely resemble a bee keepers outfit minus the hat. In fact they were all minus hats, on a mission now to complete the disguises john pulls the chair resting by the desk in front of the wardrobe, standing on it he scans the top shelf until he sees likely looking boxes, he pulls them down before wrestling with the lid on one while trying to hold the other steady, his sense of balance being slightly off both boxes fall to the floor intermingling multiple hats and what looks to John’s eyes to be loose photographs and albums.

Deciding he’d have to keep the disguises, they were good fun and mostly positive memories; the elderly lady mistaking Sherlock for a stripper while he was dressed as a fireman being a personal favourite,  he turns instead to the pile of photos and the three photo albums. He scoops the loose pieces back into the box but desides to check the albums, perhaps someone would want them; Inside he finds a chronicle of the life of Sherlock Holmes.Starting at school age the young man scowling at the camera ages quickly, half of one of the albums consists of Sherlock in Halloween costumes, the more memorable seem to occur at university, he watches his style evolve from boarding school uniforms to jeans so tight John thinks he must have found bending over difficult.  There’s a sequence of pictures with a young man with blonde hair, Sherlock scowling at the camera as the blonde nuzzles his neck or bites his ear, John feels irrational jealousy and for once doesn’t try to stop it. He’s chosen to never analyse these moments because what would it change, Sherlock had always seemed detached from sex and relationships, but the proof that once Sherlock had been more open hurt John more deeply than he would have expected.

The rest of the album is blank, the year had been noted at the beginning and John wonders if this was the year Sherlock turned to drugs. There are only two albums left, the first one he picks up seems a little heavier, when he opens it he’s faced with the beautiful face of baby. He’s shocked for a minute thinking it’s Mina, is this proof Sherlock knew, but no it can’t be, the next picture In the set shows the same child naked and chasing a dog around a living room, there’s an older boy with bright red hair chasing after him with a towel, the look on the older childs face is promising revenge and John is in no doubt that this child can only be Sherlock. No wonder Mycroft knew from the photographs, Mina and Sherlock share such clear features. John can’t wait to meet her in person. He’s too excited to sit still now. Keeping hold of the photo album he thinks he’ll share it with Mycroft, maybe keep it to show Mina one day. Climbing to his feet he knocks the last photo album with his foot. Bending to pick it up he hears the doorbell for the front door ring and chooses to leave the albums on top of the dresser. There’s time to enjoy the past later.

He takes the stairs quickly and only stops for a moment before opening the front door wide. A young brunette stands on the front steps, her smart casual suit and badge make it easy to deduce this is Lisa. Not to mention the presence of a head of dark curls popping over the edge of a blanket. He stands for a moment simply staring before realising she’s got a bag at her feet and he’s blocking the door. Grabbing the bag he moves aside;

‘Come in, come in. The flat is just upstairs can I help you with her?’

‘No thank you Doctor Watson if you just bring the bag up, the car ride put her to sleep. You’re lucky with this one, she seems to be an okay sleeper, I’ve seen much worse.’ He follows the woman’s slow and steady footsteps trying to get a clearer view of the little girl encased in the bundle.

‘Do you want to put her down somewhere, there’s a cot all set up for her upstairs if you think she needs to keep sleeping. We haven’t got one of those travel cots yet but I was thinking of maybe setting one up in the living room. So she could nap downstairs when I work from home. I haven’t really thought it through properly yet but I thought it sounded like a good idea so you know I can be right here when she needs me. If she needs me, even if she is a good sleeper she may need me sometimes right?’ the whole speech comes out as a blur of words that he didn’t even catch. Turning he looks sheepishly and the brunette.

‘Doctor Watson you seem a little nervous, am I right?’ He thinks he hears humour in her voice and for once it doesn’t bother him that someone may be laughing at him. Any self-conscious thoughts dissolving at the sight of the child she lays on the sofa. Now he can see her face he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting to look.

She’s stunning, so stunning, her hair falling longer than Sherlock kept his it forms looser curls than he was expecting. She has the high cheekbones and bow shaped mouth he recognised so clearly but her colourings are a little different. She’s pale, to a near ghostly level and his concern flies immediately to her health, but her breaths are even and there is a little colour in her cheeks. Her hands are tiny, her fingers even smaller than he'd expected, why did no one ever think to talk about how cute baby fingernails were, they were so small, so dainty, he thought she looked a little like a doll, that thought terrified him, how was he to care for something so delicate. He doesn’t realise he’s shaking till someone presses a hand to his shoulder.

‘She’s just beautiful.’ It's all he can think to say in that moment, he's flawed by her and he's never been more terrified. 

‘Yes she is Doctor Watson, I’ve bought you her files, I think it was mentioned you’d want to look over everything we have about her. I understood you chose a name, we’ll edit our files accordingly.’

‘Yes, yes I did, well we did, but her name is going to be Mina.’

‘It’s a lovely name.’

‘Did she have one before; no one seems to know the answer to that. My friend Greg he’s one of the officers for operation Poppy or whatever it is,  he said none of the people they got out were talking. No one knew her, but look at her, someone must know her, the other children, there were others, are they ok?’

‘Doctor Watson, you need to understand. The place she’s been, people not knowing her. That’s good, I know it’s horrid but if they didn’t notice her, maybe it kept her out of trouble, you’ll see in the files what evidence of abuse we found but I’ll say this, none of it was sexual, at least there was no evidence of trauma. The other girl she said they only ever called her Mini Moth after her mum apparently. Her mum was The Moth, that’s all we’ve got. It’s all in the file, read it and see what you see. She’s very quiet, doesn’t make a noise when she cries and when she’s sleeping we didn’t hear a peep out of her then either.’

‘I don’t envy you your job Lisa.’

‘No on cases like this I don’t think anyone does, but they need someone these kids and that’s what we’re here for, so if you need anything just drop us a call.’ She hands him a card, this one has her name and number on it. She’s smiling at him and he knows instantly that if he ever did need their help he’d call her in a heartbeat.

‘I’m thinking we should wake her up and do introductions, I’ll stay for a little while, help you get her settled and then we’ll see how you do on your own, Dad.’ The smile on her face is genuine and he feels himself return it. The news that’s waiting for him in the manila folders she bought might dampen this moment and he doesn’t want that. He wants to meet her for the first time just seeing her and not all the terrible things that might drive him to revenge.

Lisa leans over the sleeping girl muttering softly and brushing her hair behind her ear, he can see her stirring, his expectation with young children being that they’ll cry upon waking prematurely and yet as she stirs she doesn’t make a sound. He’s taken in by the shade of her eyes, they’re a deeper blue than he expected, almost hypnotising in their clarity. They stare directly at him over the shoulder of the social worker. Lisa scoops her up, sitting so Mina is facing out into the room and towards John.

‘This is John, little one although perhaps he will simply be Dad to you, and this place right here, this is home. I think you’re going to love it.’

Mina doesn’t take her eyes off John and he doesn’t blink, the fear he’d never admitted to himself that he’d look into this child’s eyes and simply see Sherlock, that he’d be so muddled with his grief that he’d never be able to see her as an individual melts away as she opens her mouth. The smallest laugh comes out and John doesn't think he’s ever heard a sweeter sound.  


	7. First Night

‘So, well I’ve never heard her do that before.’ 

They’ve relocated to the chairs in front of the fire and at some point John realises someone’s made tea, he’s relatively certain it wasn’t him because he’s not been able to take his eyes off the little girl currently in between them, she’s sitting independently but he’s been certain to surround her with cushions. Lisa insists it’s not necessary;

_‘She’s pretty sturdy Dr Watson’_

John’s pretty sure he’s never heard a more ridiculous suggestion, she couldn’t look more breakable her arms and legs were thin, her fingers  looked beyond delicate and from everything he could recall from his years of medical training, at this moment recollection seemed minimal, their heads were ridiculously breakable. If by surrounding her with every cushion in the house he can keep her even slightly safer that’s what he’ll do.

 ‘Dr Watson?’

‘Humm, what, yes Lisa I’m sorry I was just a little,’ he points down at the little girl sucking on her own fist, he wonders vaguely if she’s teething, he’ll have to remember to pick up supplies for that.

‘You were a little distracted falling in love with your daughter? I was just saying I’d never heard her laugh’ Lisa says there’s no annoyance in her voice and john wonders vaguely what sort of person she thought he was going to be. How anyone could look at Mina and not fall in love he’d never understand. ‘I can’t blame you for being a little besotted, she’s a very good little girl, especially considering all she’s been through, I’ve never seen her so unconcerned around new people and it took me hours to get her to stop crying in the hospital’

‘I’m making the assumption that’s a good thing.’ John slides off the chair so he can look his daughter in the face. She stares at him while sucking her fist, he can’t stop smiling, she garbles and he can’t stop the laugh, it makes it all the better when, releasing her fist with a slip of drool, she laughs too. He can see some teeth but not the correct amount for a two year old. From everything he’s observed he’s certain Mycroft is right, she can’t be two, he says as much to Lisa who looks down at the pair of them from his old chair;

‘I think you’re right, she’s just tall for a baby of her age I’ve been thinking more along eighteen months myself, I think we’d probably hope for a little more development in her but she seems pretty perfect. She is underweight though and malnourished, when we asked the children what they’d been eating they thought she’d been having those baby biscuits, Rusks I think they’re called and whatever the children would give her, water mostly instead of milk, but that’s not enough for a child. We’ve bought you a supply of special formula, she doesn’t like it much but it’s what she needs right now.’

‘There’s no way you’re going to be allowed to be fussy little one, your Dad was when I knew him but I still managed to get him to eat some and Mrs Hudson was even better at it most of the time. I suppose you are too young to like Indian food though so we’ll have to settle for this special formula lovely Lisa’s bought, what do you think?’ 

‘She can have foods, she’s a toddler after all, her teeth are coming in slowly but that might be down to her diet or just her development, every baby is different.’

‘Well her uncle Mycroft and my friend Greg, they’ve nipped out to get some things for her, bottles, formula the whole thing. I guess they’ll probably buy food too, isn’t there a terrible story about someone mashing bananas and sweet potatoes together, I think I heard that somewhere but if it’s what she wants then I can mash all the things.’

‘Well that’s pretty unnecessary honestly and she doesn’t need a bottle.’

‘What?’ that distracts him, surely babies need bottles.

‘Well toddlers don’t require bottles; she’s capable of holding a cup or beaker. We tried her with just a plastic children beaker without a lid but she didn’t handle it very well. There are two of the no spill beakers in her bag and they’re perfectly suitable for her to use. No bottles required. You can pop them in the dishwasher too and as for food, she may not have all her teeth but she has enough for solids, you can give her fruit pieces and in general the things you eat as long as there’s no added salt. So plain foods, boiled vegetables, chicken, toast all those things are fine. For now she should have her formula twice a day and two good meals. I’ve included a list of meal ideas and snack thoughts, we give them to everyone who’s adopting.’

‘I, right, yes I suppose, I just, I guess I don’t know quite what I’m doing yet’ he turns his head to address the little girl in front of him ‘I just found out about you see little one, but don’t you worry, I’m a quick learner and we’ll find out all this together, if I’d known about you before I guess I’d know what you liked and didn’t and we wouldn’t have to start from zero.’  John can’t help but realise how little he knows, he needs books and research, what chance has he got if he can’t even feed her.

‘Doctor Watson, you shouldn’t worry, you’re not starting from zero and I don’t think she’ll know many foods. You’ll learn together and most toddlers are picky so if she doesn’t like something she simply won’t eat it.’

‘You should probably call me John, I mean I know you as Lisa, it seems like an odd power relationship to be referred to by my title by someone who knows more about my baby then I do.’ He realises she’s moved then, he’s not taken his eyes off the baby who in turn hasn’t stopped staring at him, it feels a bit like living in a bubble, but he recognises movement out of the corner of his vision and wonders if he’s being rude by not looking up.

‘I know more about babies? Do you know how many I’ve looked after in the last week alone,’ Lisa leans forward and places her finger in Mina’s fist, ‘I don’t know this little one, not really, I know what the doctors told me and what we tell every new parent.’

‘You stayed with her through the hospital though.’

‘Yes but believe me that was more of a trauma, we got her calm once all the tests were run and the information for the police was collected but she was still miserable. I’m shocked she’s happy now. I’m imagining she must like you, trust from this baby, I would have thought it would have to be hard won but she seems to be off to a good start.’

‘If you say so’ Lisa looks towards him and for the first time he thinks he sees something like annoyance in her expression.

‘You doubting yourself won’t help anyone, especially her, no one knows it all John and right now what she needs isn’t your uncertainty, she needs your love.’ He supposes she’s right but he’s not even certain of that completely, over the last day he’s felt more than he has in months, he’s emotionally and mentally exhausted and the only thing keeping him upright is the knowledge that this little girl now exists, he’s completely smitten and completely terrified, to top it all every time she smiles she gets dimples that remind her of Sherlock.

‘John we come bearing gifts of food and baby provisions’

 Greg’s voice has the ability to fill a room completely, perhaps because he’s shouting or possibly because the second he does John feels the bubble of peace he’d erected around the circle of cushions on the floor burst. Heavy footfalls sound of the wooden stairs and John thinks quickly of Mrs Hudson’s complaints that the older D.I. always sounds like a herd of elephants running up her stairs.  He’s aware that he should move but all he can think to do is make shushing noises as he watches Mina react to this latest arrival in her new world. Greg walks into the flat and freezes, John assumes this as the noise stops and he hears plastic bags being placed on the floor.

‘This her then?’ Mina seems aware she’s being spoken about, she looks away from John to consider the new arrival.  He’s yet to look away when she turns back to him stretching her arms out she opens and closes her fists a number of times, John isn’t sure what instinct he hears that had him leaning forwards and pulling her up but settling her on his hip feels natural and from the way she wraps her fists around handfuls of his jumper he supposes she doesn’t object.

Lisa’s introducing herself to Greg when Mycroft walks in, he’s lost the suit jacket and tie and John isn’t certain he’s ever seen him look more casual. Add to that the flecks of white decorating his trousers and the sides of his once spotless shoes John ponders briefly that this must be what he’d look like ravished, he can’t help but laugh, it’s loud and startles everyone in the room to silence, the little girl in his arms taps the side of his face and he dips his lips to kiss her hand.

‘What’s funny mate?’ Greg sounds bemused and John thinks he must look crazy laughing at seemingly nothing, should he point out that Mycroft looks to have gone three rounds in some stable or not.

‘Well it’s just I was wondering how Mycroft would choose to explain the white marks on his trousers and shoes, that’s all Greg.’ Both gentlemen go a steady shade of magenta and John can’t recall seeing anything better than Mycroft and Greg spluttering and saying the word yoghurt repeatedly. This line of questioning had definite potential, John wonders when happiness had become his default setting again, turning away from the numbness of grief; the young girl with her head rested on his shoulder was a reminder of just how recent this change was.

‘Well Mina, now that we have embarrassed your Uncle Mycroft and Greg thoroughly should we unpack all these provisions. We could try out a snack from the approved list our friend Lisa has bought.’ He grins at the social worker and accepts the folder she holds out to him, her own smile in place she grabs three of the bags from the floor and follows him once he scoops up the forth. Leaving his friends to their blushes seems like the best idea at present.

They stand in the kitchen, John juggling Mina and directing on which cupboards belong to each food group. Opening the one which always belonged to cans and the good biscuits John hid from Sherlock’s post case sugar binges Lisa pulls down glass beakers, Bunsen burners and gleaming Petri dishes.

‘Got something to tell me John,’ the social worker raises one of her eyebrows and John thinks it would almost be comical if her tone didn’t suggest she was concerned.

‘Oh those belonged to Sherlock, my old, I mean Mina’s dad. We lived here together when he was alive and he conducted science experiments. Those probably got put in there by Mrs Hudson; she tidies without even meaning to half the time. But it would be best to leave it there for now, Mycroft can probably remove it but I would hate to interrupt the sexual tension in my living room’

Lisa laughed when John winked at her. ‘They’re pretty cute, have they been doing this dance long?’

‘I have no idea honestly, I’ve never been around them together, well except on cases sometimes, but then Sherlock and Mycroft would always engage in their constant battle of wills and believe me any sexual tension would have been destroyed by the frigidity of their stares.’

‘That must have frustrated you and Greg some, I’m sorry you know about Sherlock. I heard about the whole thing on the news obviously but I mean I could honestly never bring myself to believe that he was fake, he was brutally honest, or at least that was how he seemed.’ John was always at a loss when it came to these conversations, people searching for reassurance that the man the country had taken to their hearts was truly a hero rather than a villain, that the tabloid media had it all wrong. He’d started out by agreeing with every comment. When reporters asked what he thought about the accusations that continued after Sherlock’s death he’d been quick to jump to his defence, he was loud and aggressive in his assertion of Sherlock’s innocence and Moriarty’s deception, he’d stopped when he realised he was making the situation worse.

Tabloid headlines read; ‘John Watson still deluded!’, ‘Genius commits suicide while lover looks on’, ‘I still believe in Sherlock Holmes: why John Watson became the most deluded doctor in Britain.’

They’d made Johns stomach twist when he’d come across them in the corner store or walked past someone reading them. Having his face continued to be plastered on the gossip pages of the national press brought him nothing but pity and as his sister had enjoyed reminding him;

_‘All this denial just makes you look pathetic Jonny, you should move past this before all the women start believing that fake was something more than a sociopath to you.’_

He’d not returned her calls for a month but that hadn’t stopped her leaving drunken messages at 4 am asking to speak to Clara, asking him for money, asking him to set her up with someone new.

‘In all honesty I don’t know what to tell you, he wasn’t a fake, he was as amazing as he seemed, he could deduce almost anyone in a matter of seconds, he was my best friend and I miss him. He wasn’t really a hero though, he was definitely not a villain but he was selfish, self righteous, he had a superiority complex to rival anyone, the man was a genius but he never considered how his genius could hurt others.’

‘You sound like you miss him.’

‘I do, everyday, it hasn’t been long enough for me to not think about him every day and now, just looking at this little angel, I don’t know if I ever will.’ He pulls the little girl closer, she smells sweet and a little like fabric softener.

‘John, look, I don’t know you, not really and I don’t know her,’ Lisa points to the baby who’s started pulling the fabric of John’s jumper before releasing it to pat his neck. He was worried she was trying to tell him something before he’d looked down and realised she was fascinated by the slightly raised knit of the jumpers design, he decided it was some form of game and left her to her repetition, he decided if he wanted out of his arms she’d wriggle or in some way attempt escape but before then he intended to cling to the warmth and reassuring weight he felt with her in his arms ‘But I’m just going to say this because I think you’re lovely and she deserves someone lovely. You can’t replace Sherlock with Mina, this baby, she may have part of him in her but she’s brand new, she’s not him and you shouldn’t want her to be.’ He’d known that was how he’d sounded but it was never how he’d felt;

‘I know and I would never want her to be, she’s going to be her own person, wonderfully special and individual just as her father was but she can’t be him. He was one of a kind and so is she. I’m excited to learn who she is. I miss Sherlock but I wouldn’t try to replace him, it would be insulting to him and to her.’

‘That’s good John, I just, I wanted to check. Look I should be going,’ Now John allows himself to feel panic, he’d not considered her leaving, she was the fountain of baby knowledge and John needed answers.

‘Wait but you can’t she’ll need you.’ He followed her as she re-entered the living room, collecting her small black bag she removed two more folders and placed them on the coffee table.

‘No John she needs you, believe me you’ve got this.’

‘No no but I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘Yes you do, this folder’ pointing to the latest she placed on the table, ‘this one contains suggestions about a schedule but you might find she has her own ideas about timings. Don’t look so panicked John, these folders have all the information you need for right now and I’ll be back tomorrow. If anything goes terribly wrong, here, this is my card and on the back I’ve written my mobile number. You call and I will talk you through whatever it is but you’re not going to need me. Follow the instructions and remember to breath.’ She smiled softly leaning forward to tap Mina on the nose, ‘be good little Miss’ turning the rooms other occupants John can only think to describe her expression as smug. ‘You two, help him when he needs it and most of all continue to distract him because this whole experience is going to go much more smoothly if he continues to laugh’ With a final smile at John and a flickering of her fingers at Mina Lisa left.

***

In the three hours since Lisa had left John had managed to feed Mina without covering either of them in spaghetti, although that was more through the discovery of baby cutlery than anything else. John was worried about overwhelming her with new flavours but the recipe was in the binder and it seemed like a good place to start, as it turned out the binder did contain pretty much everything, combined with the internet research he discovered the perfect temperature the heat a child’s bath too, the temperature the special formula should be heated too, he still thought they should have put that on the box.

Some things he’d learnt on his own, Johnsons no more tears burns like hell if you get it into your eyes, he’d discovered this by accidently rubbing his eyes when Mina was splashing about earlier, not that he was complaining but a product called no more tears caused a hell of a lot of eye watering, children could be entertained through splash wars with themselves, potentially the most adorable thing he’d ever witnessed, bath mats main purpose was to provide your knees with somewhere safe to rest while avoiding the flooded bathroom floor, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t thank them for that, although all the forums said she would be able to handle a small cup herself Mina seemed to lack the control to take sips of a drink, the whole milk he’d tried her with at dinner had been more messy than the spaghetti and the final lesson, learnt immediately upon Lisa leaving, just because Mina didn’t make noise, didn’t mean she didn’t cry.

It had taken all three of them, multiple attempts at distractions, forty minutes and the appearance of Mrs Hudson to calm her down again, Mrs Hudson had held her and swayed to a melody in her own head while Mina chewed on one of the teething rings Mycroft had found.

‘She doesn’t make a noise John,’ John had only experience one other occasion of Mycroft sounding this emotional, he remembered the older man leaning nearly double in the hospital waiting room while they’d waited to identify Sherlock, he’d kept expressing his guilt and his shame and John at the time had been in no position to comfort him. After what Sherlock had told him Mycroft had done, John blamed him too. No amount of logic and compassion could have changed that in that waiting room. But here, surrounded by the people he loved, he understood the tone more, Mycroft was looking at what was left of his brother and seeing something fragile and it terrified him, the terror was that he’d lose her as he’d lost Sherlock and John could only feel compassion for that because he shared in the feeling.

‘She does Mycroft, she’s laughed and I’ve heard her make some letter sounds, she’s not mute, I think she’s just scared. The medical file explains a little did you look.’

‘I did, I didn’t understand as much as you did though. How do we help her, she should know not to be scared here.’

‘She has no reason to know that, preferable scenario she’s shocked to have left everyone she knows behind and she’s adapting. Worst she’s been traumatised by the actions of the bastards Greg saved her from and if that’s the case we’re going to help her heal and then so help me we’re going to shoot every one of those dicks in the head.’ Mycroft not commenting on the aggression or the tears running down John’s face struck John both as compassionate but also an agreement. If they needed too, the two men would defend their family.

Mycroft and Greg had left decidedly not together, Greg being collected by Sally, who decided not to grace them with her presence and Mycroft when Anthea arrived with a new suit and instructions for a conference call with Japan, he’d seemed reluctant to get off the floor, they’d surrounded Mina with the few toys she currently had and had been testing her motor skills. According to their limited research she wasn’t too far behind where she should be, John would look into language development more extensively in the morning but for this evening they’d done all they could,

‘John if you need anything call any of the numbers you have for me,’ Mycroft’s professional tone returned with the suit and not for the first time John wondered to what degree the pieces formed an armour for Mycroft, ‘Anthea can get me out of any calls and I can be here in less than twenty minutes. A pushchair is arriving in the morning and if you’re going to be leaving the house with her I’d really appreciate if you’d call me. Until all the people involved in with place she was being kept have been processed and the threat to her neutralised I want to have security aware of her at all times.’

‘Mycroft I think you’re panicking, we will be going out tomorrow because frankly your niece needs things and I want to spoil her but we don’t need an escort and she doesn’t need security. I won’t be letting her out of my sight.’

‘John please, I just, just for now will you allow me this, this precaution will cost you nothing and you won’t be aware of it. Keeping her safe is all I want.’ John knew he couldn’t say no, he also knew that saying no wouldn’t stop Mycroft Holmes, better to agree so he was at least aware of who was watching them.

‘Fine but if it interferes with anything I won’t thank you Mycroft.’

‘Understood John. Good evening.’ He paused in the doorway before striding back to where John was still nestled on the floor with his daughter. Mycroft crouched in front of her, speaking to her he smiled gently, ‘Goodnight Mina, be good for your father and I will see you tomorrow.’ With that he left to climb into one of his ever present black cars.

‘That my little dove was your Uncle Mycroft, he would appear to have put himself in charge of your security, but don’t let that fool you, your Dad, that’s me by the way, used to be in the Army you don’t need security when I’m around but we humour him because your Daddy, his brother, drove him a little bonkers every time he rebelled, so we’re going to be good.’ Mina was more interested with chewing on the ear of her bear then listening to his monologue but John continued to narrate their activities in the hopes of encouraging her to talk. The idea that she may not have had this, that a lack of communication may have led to her loss of voice may have made him angry, but the easy trust she seemed to show him, she’d never cried when he held her, she reached for him and he made her laugh multiple times, that trust kept him calm.

Bath time was followed by warmed milk and quiet goodnights from Mrs Hudson, she couldn’t seem to help checking on them, john might have been concerned she doubted his parenting abilities if it wasn’t for the doe eyed look she wore whenever she was faced with Mina, yes John could see his little girl wrapping anyone and everyone around her finger with unprecedented ease and he couldn’t think of a reason why she shouldn’t.  They sat in John’s old bedroom surrounded by fairy lights; Mrs Hudson had made the argument for a nightlight;

‘So little Mina you’ve had a big day, tomorrow should be easier I think, we’ve got folders of information but Daddy needs to buy some books and you need toys and blankets and clothes and so many things, we’re going to have a wonderful day and by the end of it maybe I’ll be used to calling myself Daddy, what do you think,’ her eyes were drooping but John couldn’t make himself move, sat here surrounded by fairy lights with his back against the solid structure of 221b he felt more comfortable than he had in months, perhaps years, Mina’s breaths were steady and in sleep her face relaxed into a softer shape, she’d turned into him and John didn’t want to let her go, her crib seemed too far and disturbing her seemed rude so he stayed there, wrapped in the blanket he covered them both with and told himself he’d move when he felt tiered, ignoring the yawns he’d been experiencing for the last hour. This was where he wanted to be, wrapped in a cocoon with his baby girl, something he hadn’t known he needed until he had it.

Six hours later when he awoke to tiny fingers pressing his nose his shoulder and back reminded him exactly why sleeping sitting up against a wall was a bad idea but the smile of Mina’s face was a clearer reminder of why he did not care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how happy I am with this chapter, it feels clunky but it's taken two days and I figure I should publish before I end up editing it all again. Oh well, I hope anyone reading enjoyed. 
> 
> MJ


	8. White Rabbit

‘Ok this would have gone a lot smoother if Daddy didn’t have to hold you while you ate.’ John looked around the kitchen table, thirty minutes, one bowl of baby porridge, two pieces of toast, an abandoned cup of tea and a sippy cup of formula had turned the once clean kitchen into a slight disaster area, the porridge, which Mina had eaten three spoons of before deciding it would be better used to decorate the floor, table and Johns clean jumper, the slightly soggy piece of toast which Mina upon investigating had licked the jam off without eating the bread  were currently being combined into some form of starchy soup. Removing the items from his toddlers grip proved more difficult than anticipated and John was now seeing the real benefit of high-chairs. 

‘Mina, we will have to make a list,’ his declaration was met by a toothy grin and the piece of toast joining the mess on the floor. ‘Mrs Hudson will not thank me if I don’t clean up after us so you’re going to have to sit in the lounge and play for a few minutes little lady, then we will make our list and head out into the world.’  The text he’d received from Anthea, when her contact had been added to his phone he had no idea, said the pushchair would be arriving at 8:30, it was now just after eight and John reckoned once he’d cleaned the kitchen some they’d be ready to go. Apart from her hands Mina had proved herself to be quite a clean eater, holding the spoon seemed to fascinate her but she was more than happy to eat porridge from her fingers and as long as she was eating John thought he could teach table manners later.

 While wiping porridge off the surfaces he thought back to the morning previously, 24 hours ago he’d been sat in his sad bed sit contemplating a second cup of tea before work, he’d slept badly, nightmares a regular occurrence again, and awoken with no desire for food but a strong need for caffeine. Now he was facing a lifetime of responsibility he’d never dreamed of and never understood how much he wanted. He’d thought about children in an abstract sense but they’d always been pushed into the future, something to discuss with a serious partner if one would ever materialise. Mina was no abstract idea however, she was also not in the ring of cushions John had placed her in, panic surged through John and he circled the table, had she fallen, where was she, had he remembered to close the front door, but she was there, clinging to the bars at the side of Sherlock’s chair and contemplating the skull on the mantelpiece, she’d pulled herself up to standing and John realised their little tests yesterday hadn’t taken into account mood, perhaps she could do more than they’d noted. He stood quietly watching her as she pondered the skull, she lifted her hand to her mouth and started sucking her fingers again, there was something in that John thought, some meaning behind the action maybe, was it comfort, some babied formed attachments to the sucking motions if feeds had been used for comfort or he supposed if they’d had dummies, was this a similar action.

The doorbell ringing shocked them both, Mina turning to stare at him with wide eyes while they listened to Mrs Hudson bustle to the door downstairs. ‘Well little lady that will probably be for us, shall we go see?’ instead of moving to pick her up he took two steps and opened his arms, Mina considered him and then the distance between them, she took a step before faltering and ending up sat next to her bear, ‘Come on Mina you can come over here’ he knelt on the carpet with his arms stretched towards her.

‘John dear, there’s a parcel just been delivered it’s awfully big so I left it downstairs. Well good morning to you to Mina, what a lovely smile.’ Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, Mina upon seeing their visitor lost all interest in the battle of wills she and John had been engaging in and smiled. ‘What are you doing John?’ But just as John turned to answer he saw Mina push onto her hands and start to crawl.

‘Oh Mina aren’t you clever little love’  Arriving in front of John she promptly sat again and resumed sucking her fingers, there was no reason such a small action should make John want to cry but it felt overwhelming, Mina shifted her gaze from John to Mrs Hudson and opened her arms. This John recognised and picking her up he turned to Mrs Hudson, balancing the baby as their landlady clasped her cheeks and kissed her forehead. If John saw some stray tears falling down her face he refused to mention it, looking into her face and eyes made him see Sherlock he imagined it did the same for her.

‘We’re going out Mrs Hudson, was the delivery a pushchair?’

‘Yes dear but it’s in a box, come down and we’ll find a knife to open it.’

***

In total opening the pushchair had taken twenty five minutes, four attempts, one cut finger and some quietly muttered expletives but eventually John had been able to release Mrs Hudson from the chair where she’d been holding Mina and having bundled her up in both coat, shoes, scarf, mittens and a hat they’d left the house. Turns out making your way through London with a pushchair is a nightmare. You’re relegated to buses because no one thinks taking a pushchair on the underground is clever, you’re forced to have people move so you can navigate an awkwardly shaped piece of apparatus around with you and then there’s the constant worry about literally running into someone. The pushchair itself was nice, on the outside it was a plain black and silver but when Mina laid back or was covered by the rain guard the inner material was covered in depictions of star constellations, it was incredibly detailed to the point where John got distracted himself. The description said that in the dark the star shapes would reflect the light and appear to glow, potentially overkill for a child’s pushchair but John thought you had to love the ingenuity. 

Mina however was fascinated by everything outside of the pushchair, she used her fingers to pull herself forwards while they were walking past parks and buildings so she could see everything they passed, she made a noise of surprise as they walked through one of the patches of pidgins London was so famous for and when they finally sat on the bus she raised her arms with such a perfectly Sherlock look of demand John had to bring her out, she stood on his knee and looked at everyone on the bus, the elderly couple in the seats right next to them made cooing noises and she responded with a small smile but it was the tattooed man with dreadlocks and large headphones that caught her eyes and kept her attention, she watched with a look of fascination as he bobbed his head to the bass heavy beats coming through his headphones, John thought he hadn’t noticed her attention until he made eye contact with John and winked, he couldn’t help the blush, flirtatious or not he wasn’t used to the attention of strangers on public transport. London was a city of underground travelling book readers, why did so many companies provide free magazines if you were supposed to make eye contact, he chose to stare instead at the side of Mina’s face and watch as she made little noises and used her little bow mouth to blow kisses to those that smiled back at her.  If getting on the bus was difficult leaving was harder, a child determined not to return to their pushchair, an elderly couple determined to get off before you and a dreadlocked tattooed man pinching your bum as you finally manage to make a break for it. Everything considered public transport was a nightmare.

They’d made it to the retail park in mostly one piece and John was determined to purchase everything they needed in this one place as to negate travelling to more stores.

‘Let’s order the furniture first little one, get the boring stuff out of the way before we lose ourselves in a toy store. ‘His answer came in the form of a giggle but that was good enough for John. The wide aisles of the store had clearly been designed with a pushchair in mind, he quickly attracted a sales assistants eye and upon asking to be shown to certain sections was glad to find that his purchases would be delivered and assembled by their staff, he was able to handle a screwdriver but some of the pieces looked complicated enough that he would have had to call reinforcements and Mina hadn’t seemed that keen on Greg the night before.

‘Alright so the question with the bedroom furniture is colour and design, everything in this section is made of oak but you can have different stains or paints if you’re planning a matching set.’

‘I’ve got to be honest with you; I have no idea about any of that. I mean her crib is a dark stained wood, I think mahogany but her uncle bought it, it’s big and stately and takes up most of the room.’

‘Well in that case I won’t try to see you on the wardrobe, changing table though that’s a must and we do have mahogany over here.’ He led the way to a section a richer toned colours, reds and greens and royal blue, the furniture was darker but in Johns limited knowledge looked hard wearing, and at the prices they were asking he would hope they were. Selecting appropriate pieces and a set of the sapphire blue bedding John left the store considerably poorer but feeling more prepared.

‘No more morning disaster zones for us little love,’ Mina had been quiet for the shopping expedition but once in the open air and London drizzle she started a stream of noises, exclaiming and pointing at anything she considered note worthy John tried to keep up. Three stores later and the only thing left to buy were toys, this was something John knew little about; but one look in the girls section of the toy superstore in front of them was enough to make him realise it wasn’t the place for him, why did everything need to be divided by gender and then why did the girls toys all need to be covered in glitter. What did a baby need with that much glitter!

 

John feels relieved to see the black car idling in front of the store; the idea of trying to wage war on London’s public transport again filled him with dread, Anthea helped load the bags and pushchair in the boot while he strapped Mina into the car seat that had materialised in the back seat, the image of Mycroft explaining its existence to the multitude of people John liked to imagine he faux kidnapped daily filled him with glee.

‘I have to admit that was tortuous at the end, why does everything for a little girl have to be pink? Why can’t she want to be a fireman or a doctor, I saw some of the girl dress up outfits when I was coming out and can I just say no nurse dresses like that, female police officers don’t wear short little dresses.’

‘Don’t worry we’re stopping somewhere more appropriate on the way back, you’ll see.’

The car pulls to a stop outside a small boutique shop not far from Baker Street, John’s walked past it so many times but he’d never paid attention to the displays before.  He looks now, the front window holds what looks to be a DNA structure formed out of Lego it’s fascinating, there seems to be slight mistakes in the production but considering the building materials it’s frankly brilliant.

‘Alright Mina, down the rabbit hole we go’ A small bell rings as they enter the store, to the left John can see that the Lego display continues for half the shop, children’s tables have half built Lego structures decorating them, some look to be castles, he sees what looks to be the Death Star and some form of space ship. To the right racks of clothes, costumes, mini lab coats and shelves of shoes, converse, mini doc martins, he moves to rummage through the options, balancing Mina on his hip he picks up a pair of bumble bee converse which he is determined to buy.

‘Did you know a honey bee had five eyes and can see ultra violet light?’ John can’t see the owner of the voice but its female,

‘Hello, person I can’t see, very interesting fact’ he laughs, a face appears between the racks of Star Trek children uniforms and the dungarees of many colours.

‘Those boots come in purple as well’

‘Why would you want purple bees?’

‘Purple anything is good, purple bees would be cool and if you’re really going for authenticity bees don’t have cartoon human eyes either.’ The face vanishes back through the clothes ‘come along short man and well dressed daughter of man, we will find you the things you need, this way.’ John walks around the rack to see dark hair flitting around the corner of a bookcase,

‘My name is John, this is my daughter Mina and I was hoping to find some toys, I really want those big Lego bricks but the store we went into seemed determined little girls only needed ones in Pink and Purple and those sets to build beauty salons and things.’ The noise of disgust seems to come from behind a tower of books, ‘where exactly are you?’

‘Call me Tammy by the way, it’ll make this easier when you tell me I’m nuts.’

John laughs again, slight awkward this time, it’s disconcerting being able to hear someone and not see them, not only that but behind the bookcases the natural light from the front of the store is obscured and there’s an unnatural green glow coming from behind a curtain his left.

‘Someone call for giant Lego bricks,’ the woman, Tammy reappears holding two large plastic boxes ‘theses contain five hundred bricks between them and I can solemnly swear that while I may be up to no good these do not contain pink or glitter,’ she leans over the counter at Mina ‘but missy what I’m not telling Daddy is that they do contain purple bricks because purple is cool, pink is also cool but Daddy here would appear to be on a definitive anti-gender movement and we must respect that’ Her grin is slightly manic when she looks back up at John, it might be a little creepy John thinks but it becomes obvious he’s alone in this conclusion when Mina lets out a giggle and reaches for the woman’s glasses. He’s about to apologise when Tammy whips them off her nose and gives them to Mina, ‘we should encourage an inquisitive nature don’t you think John, she’s a beauty this one.’

‘Her father was inquisitive so it wouldn’t come as a surprise, I would take those back though she’ll likely chew them.’ Removing the glasses earns him a squeak of annoyance from his daughter but John imagines it’s safer than letting her chew on them, ‘Oh and I have no problem with the colours I just figure she shouldn’t be restricted you know, I want her to figure out what she likes, be it princesses’, John bends down and presents his daughter with the teddy she’s been eyeballing since John removed Tammy’s glasses, ‘or apparently Ewoks, really little cuddly Ewoks?’

Tammy raises an eyebrow at him before ducking under the counter, there’s the sound of rustling bags before she reappears ‘You think that’s cool, think fast’ she tosses a grey ball at him, John catches it one handed happy with the maintenance of his reflexes and realises it’s a cuddly Death Star,

‘Seriously!’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ John can only think of Tammy’s smile as manic, he follows her slowly as she darts behind yet another bookcase, he wondered if they were just used as room dividers here,

‘Holy Sh..’ he realises at the last minute that Mina is still In his arms chewing the ear of the cuddly Ewok and not caring in the slightest that John thinks he might just have walked into his teenage self’s version of nirvana. When he was growing up it was Harry who had filled the house with rock music, head banging with her friends until their mother would scream, she’d been the rebel with piercings, tattoos, late night parties and one very memorable excursion with acid which had put John off recreational drugs for life, he on the other hand had lost himself in worlds of science fiction and fantasy until fourteen when he’d also discovered a love for rugby. He’d lost himself in worlds of heroes and absolute truths when the reality of home had gotten so ugly, his mother and Harry so similar it could be volatile he’d had to play peacekeeper on more occasions than he cared to remember, but stood here surrounded by Star Trek and Star Wars play sets, board games from the Princess Bride, Labyrinth and Cowboys Vs Indians he’s reminded of the heroes and escapes of his youth. He found solitude and peace in these stories.

Tammy stands pointing at the Star Wars section, the higher shelves are filled with detailed Lego sets and hobby craft models but further down the shelves are filled with learning toys, there’s another non-cuddly Death star which has been turned into what John thinks is a multisensory toy, when he pushes it lights flash while the theme music plays, certain sections have been made out of reflective material while others have smooth indents and waves,

‘I don’t know how much she’d learn but it’s definitely cool’ he looks back to Tammy to find her smiling broadly.

‘To be honest most of these toys are for slightly older children, the board games are a bit more advanced but there are cool costumes she might like for fancy dress and our Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings sections do have some toddler options,’ John moves to the sections she indicates ‘We have soft doll ranges to make them more appropriate for younger children, let me just’ she dives under the table in the middle of the room part way through her section but John feels he’s starting to get used to this brand of conversation, it’s not so different from when Sherlock would jump into the middle of an explanation without providing any context, he’d learnt coping mechanisms, ‘Ah ha!’ Her arms are full when she reappears, the already messy ponytail now looks more like the top of a pineapple than anything else and John barely stops himself from laughing. She tips her offering onto the only section of the table not covered in bobble heads and holds up a cuddly Spok toy, ‘Isn’t he so cool’

‘Definitely cool, I’m a little worried I’m going to be forcing my tastes on her but who can say no to a cuddly set of the Star Trek characters.’

‘Don’t worry you’re merely educating her in proper entertainment from a young age’ Tammy offers Mina the cuddly Spok, Mina considers him while chewing the ear of the Ewok, that they’re now going to have to buy, letting go of her death grip on John’s jumper she reaches with her other arm bringing Spok close to her other side, she doesn’t relinquish the Ewok but ponders her new toy steadily, John wonders if the attention is being paid to the fact the squat toy looks vaguely human or the frankly huge pointed ears which adorn the sides of its head.

Apparently happy with her hand off Tammy rushes forwards to help John balance the assortment of toys, puzzles and books he’s found to fill their flat, he only just stops himself from buying a glow in the dark Millennium Falcon, as he follows Tammy back to the cash register he once again focuses on the green glow,

‘Hey so is there anything else I can help you with, from your reaction I’m guessing these kind of represent you but what about this little one or your partner? Did you mention her father earlier? What does he like?’ It’s more awkward than he’d like it to be, he’s not sure how to explain Sherlock and he’s not comfortable going into the details of Mina’s adoption with a stranger no matter how wonderful her taste in products is,

‘He actually passed away quite recently, it’s just us now.’ Tammy freezes mid way through boxing up the cuddly Sam and Frodo set,

‘Oh John I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t have said anything, I wasn’t trying to be nosey I just wondered,  I am really sorry I feel like a fool.’

‘Hey no, don’t, don’t worry, you didn’t know, I speak about him like he’s here a lot, it’s my fault, don’t, don’t be upset or anything’, yeah definitely awkward, more awkward when he sees a slight shine in her eyes behind the thick glasses. He reaches for another topic, anything right now to diffuse this situation, pointing to the glow he asks,

‘You’re going to have to explain that to me, are you developing something radioactive because if so I should really remove the Ewok from my daughter’s mouth,’ She follows his line of sight to the curtained room.

‘Oh no, that’s just the night light section, Tammy clears her throat before returning her eyes to John with a smile, ‘you wanna see?’

‘Yeah, sure, maybe we need a night light hey Mina?’ Mina simply looks at him and continues chewing the ear, it’s not fluffy in itself but he probably shouldn’t be letting her chew something felt covered,  removing  it quickly from her grip he places it on the counter before following Tammy, Mina seems determined to reach the toy though, she stretches against John’s grip and lets out the closest Johns heard to a cry of distress, he tries distracting her with his keys but the look of distaste she shoots him is clear even through the frown, the look changes to one of awe as they duck under the curtain to be enveloped in darkness. It takes John a minute for his eyes to adjust but then he sees the walls, glow in the dark stars cover the gaps left between the night lights on the wall.  But what caught his eye sat in the middle of the room, a large bee model sat on a small podium small stars adorned its black stripes and through these golden lights cast their outlines onto the dark walls,

‘This one’s amazing’ John crouches to get a closer look at the material but as he does so he notices Mina stretch out a hand and touch the wing gently, she looks mesmerised by both the light and the swirling pattern on the wings,

‘It’s called a slumber bee, it’s actually a speaker as well you can connect devices to it and play lullabies straight into the crib. It attaches to the side of the bars,’ she shows him the back where Velcro straps tighten depending on the style of crib.

‘It’s wonderful, Sherlock, her father, he loved bees, and music, I guess maybe this would be fitting’, his smile is a little watery as he presses kisses into Mina’s hair; she’s still staring at the bee but moves her hands back to John’s jumper. It’s been a long day, they’re both ready to go home, standing again he asks if Tammy will bring the toy for them as well.  Anthea helps him balance the bags and Mina who’s become intent on having a nap attached to John, he’s not complaining but it makes loading a car difficult, he’s about to navigate the car seat again when the front of the store opens,

‘John, wait I want to give you one of these.’ She passes him a flyer, it’s been adorned with a rainbow and reads; White Rabbit’s Toddler Music Sessions! ‘They’re every first and third Saturday of the month, loads of people come along and we play the drums and sing and all sorts, please think about coming, I think you and Mina might really like it’ John can’t bring himself to say no and really it might be good to socialise with other parents, his support network right now consists of three people and none of them have child care experience,

‘I’ll think about it, thank you, for everything I think we’ll be set up for a while now,’ he tries his most charming smile but thinks he might just look tiered, he certainly feels it.

‘Ok, well I hope you’ll come, bye bye Mina’ she ducks her head and smiles at the little girl, John can’t see if Mina returns it but Tammy pulls upright and turns to renter her store.


	9. Lestrade

‘Sir, are you even listening?’ Donovan clicks her fingers in front of her Greg’s face, he’s not had enough sleep the handle this level of annoyance so early in the morning, he never seems to sleep anymore and sleep is a luxury; a rare one at that.

‘Not even a little Donovan sorry,’ she looks exacerbated but to be honest Greg thinks that might just be her face now, he contemplates the piles of paperwork she’d clearly placed on his desk before catching his attention ‘Coffee is going to be necessary before we even start going over these files, it’s going to be a heavy day again.’

Sally makes a sarcastic noise of disgust ‘You think the instant drivel we have here is going to help? If you need coffee you best send someone on a run’

‘With that sort of attitude you’re pretty much volunteering yourself aren’t you?’ the raised eyebrow is all the response he gets before his junior flaunts out of his office, she really would be better suited to a runway Greg thinks but she’s one of the best the MET has to offer, their relationship has been fraught since Sherlock’s death but he thinks she feels some level of guilt for her involvement, he can’t say how much though. Deciding she’s right about the coffee he decides to make a run to the independent coffee house opposite their building, he needs something with multiple shots and something sickeningly sweet to boost his blood sugar.

‘Donovan I’m heading to Caffe Grana do you want anything?’

‘Tall Latte, double shot, single hit of hazelnut, half fat, foam, no chocolate’

‘Yeah no I’m buying you a coffee, not a work of art.’ She shoots him a look of vague disgust but doesn’t say anything, riding the elevator down he decides to meet her half way with a latte, that’s not ridiculous, misty drizzle so typical of London hits him as he makes the short journey to his favourite coffee shop, the coffee was good enough to provide more than just a caffeine hit and Greg figured he didn’t mind paying a little more to keep some nice people in the area above the constant influx of Starbucks and Costa’s, he’d never been able to understand how someone could call the swill they served coffee, there was no bite to it, he liked coffee to be dark and strong enough to cause shivers as you drank it.

‘Morning Greg, what’ll it be today?’

‘Hi Terry, the usual morning routine for me but Sally wanted some fancy excuse for a Latte, don’t remember half of it but there was something about half fat?’ The barista laughs at him while making the order, looking around Greg is reminded of the other reason he loves it here, the warm dark wood interior his highlighted by rich reds and dark greens, it’d been the perfect place to meet Mycroft on a number of occasions, close enough to work to be workable for a lunch but quiet enough to discuss whatever they’d needed to in private, it’d started out as conversations about Sherlock, more like reports than a lunch between friends, but after three years they’d become close enough for conversations to revolve around their lives, or lack thereof, rather than the man who’d been the world’s only consulting detective.

He’d not initiated contact between them before yesterday for months but he’d known he missed the younger mans company, Greg had wondered initially if he used his friendship with Mycroft as an escape from his life, working weeks which often contained more than 60 hours, a wife whose continued infidelity felt like more of a joke now than something painful,  a house in desperate need of some TLC neither partner could be bothered to provide, a diet which contained more caffeine and sugar than vegetables and minerals not to mention a job that had him regularly encountering the scourge of London, sometimes they got to help people but more often than not his job involved chasing down criminals and more paper work than should ever be involved in maintaining justice. He’d envied Sherlock that part, no paperwork or aftermath, not really, he would just swan in, solve the crime and then drifted off again with some comment about an experiment or rent conversations.

Paying for his order and leaving a tip Greg head back to his office contemplating the effect Sherlock could have had on Project poppy, in 3 months his team had taken down four drug cartels, seven brothels, one human trafficking ring and most notable in his mind saved twenty innocent men, women and children from being held by the criminals they’d apprehended, he may hold Mina’s rescue as something special to him on a personal level but professionally leading this team and this project was making him feel like a real police officer again, Sherlock he thought would have both loved and hated the experience, the plotting, planning and execution of the take downs would have been his version of heaven but revisiting his past was never something Sherlock thrived at. It had taken a year to realise that nearly every case involving a drug den, every case before John anyway, had caused a panic attack the day after, sometimes they’d still be in the middle of write up when Sherlock would melt down, rushing off to smoke on the roof and throw insults at anyone who went after him,  his trigger seemed to involve being in the houses or warehouses where the products were produced but Greg couldn’t be sure, since realising he’d only involved Sherlock in drug cases when absolutely necessary and he’d even been reluctant with those before John. The difference he thought was that after John, Sherlock wouldn’t rush to the roof, he’d rush to Baker Street, he wouldn’t tell John he knew but he’d allow the army doctor to fuss him more than usual and it had made Greg happy to see someone care for him.

Not only that but he’d seen how it had made Mycroft relax, the man’s smiles had come quicker, his laughter had been louder and there had been occasions where their lunches or meetings would hold no mention of the detective or his blogger. Those had been Greg’s favourites, special to him because they made him believe he and the Politian could be friends, his gentle flirting and Mycroft’s steady wit had made him believe than perhaps they could possibly have been even more, if it hadn’t been for his marriage and Mycroft’s job. They never discussed the younger mans love life but Greg had chosen to believe it was nonexistent, how could it be if he was always drifting off to solve the world’s problems.

Arriving back at the office he left Sally’s coffee next to her key board while he watched the woman herself throw verbal abuse at Anderson across the room, he really should separate them but they’d been playing this particular game for years, fraternizing amongst colleagues was never a good idea when you worked in a high pressure environment but especially when one of the participants was married. He’d wondered on numerous occasions if Anderson’s wife knew but from his own experiences he couldn’t honestly say if she would prefer too. Perhaps ignorance was bliss.

For three hours he filled out reports, followed up on interviews, spoke to his superiors about potential deals for lower criminals to provide evidence against the high rollers in the organisation. This was his job, moves and countermoves, he didn’t dislike days such as this where he was behind a desk completing the reports necessary for convictions, it was how their justice system worked and he was damn good at working with the system,  what he did dislike however was how data entry provided time for your mind to wander. His night had been filled with dreams that haunted him into the day time, memories of cases he’d never solved, children he’d never saved and one of his closest friends jumping to his death, but his nightmares were not alone in causing his insomnia.

_A pale expanse of skin beneath his hands, quiet moans of pleasure as he traced the spine of his faceless lover with his mouth, ‘Please, God, Greg’, his partner arches his back pushing himself further into Greg’s embrace as if he can’t get close enough, continuing his decent he presses open mouthed kisses the cheeks of the younger mans backside_

‘Hey Lestrade,’ Danny one of the younger recruits on his team walks through Greg’s door causing the liquid heat he’d been allowing to fill his veins to retreat, definitely not professionally to remember your sex dream at work ‘Sally wants to know if you’re coming with us for lunch? We figured we’d hit Samuel’s if there’s enough of us’  he has to clear his throat before answering and even so he’s not completely convinced he sounds normal,

‘Sure, yeah I can do Sam’s for lunch, when are we leaving?’

‘Sir it’s like one thirty we’re pretty much leaving now’

‘God is it? Sorry Dan I’m not with it today’ the younger man smiles before dashing off the collect his belongings, he thinks it’s possible the young man rather fancies Sally. The age difference doesn’t bother him but the idea of yet more drama integrating itself within his team fills him with dread. Maybe he can introduce the young man to some of the women on the fraud prevention team, they’re lovely, friendly and approachable and they’re also a completely different division on a completely different floor of the building.

Lunch is full of good humour and happy faces, the local sports bar Samuel’s does good food and half of the Met can be found there at lunchtimes, the pool and darts tournaments provide enough completion to maintain rivalries across departments but Greg never gets involved, he’s not bad at pool but with Sally and Claire representing them they’ve managed to win seven out of the eight matches they’ve had this year, the other teams may throw banter around that it’s because they get distracted by pretty girls bending over but Sally and Claire know they win by skill and if he’s honest watching Sally rip into the misogynistic attitudes of his co-workers makes him happier than it should, the woman takes no prisoners when it comes to asserting herself amongst her counterparts, she’s ruthless in a way which loses her more friends than she keeps but she’s always worked hard and in reality Greg knows she’s battling to save people. The victims of the crimes they investigate always have a defender in her.

He watches from the sidelines as Sally commandeers a pool table and starts racking the balls, they’d had to leave Claire in the office along with a few other members of the team but Sally’s never short of opponents,

‘She’s pretty competitive isn’t she?’ Danny sits next to him tilting what’s left of his half a larger around its glass, ‘Sally I mean, she seems competitive’

‘Well yeah, it’s in her nature.’

‘Are you competitive sir?’

‘You should really call me Greg when we’re in a bar Danny but to answer your question I can be, but never as much as her. Sally is a winning machine,’ the young man blushes in response to his answer. ‘I’m going to nip out for a cigarette, come get me if she starts a fight will you’ he points to where Sally is starting to trash talk the head of recruitment, he’d rather not get on the man’s bad side again,  the other positive to Sam’s is the covered smoking area, he pulls himself deeper into his coat as he lights up, the smoke is hazy as he exhales, he’s alone again and the road surrounding them is quieter than you’d expect for the middle of London, he thinks back to the dream he’d had the night before, when he’d woken he’d wondered if he should feel guilt for having a sex dream about someone that wasn’t his wife, they shared a bed but in reality they were estranged, he’d stopped wearing his wedding ring months earlier and it was only for convenience they hadn’t gotten divorced, neither of them finding the time to file and sign the papers, he didn’t really speak to her anymore. Perhaps the time had come to be more proactive in their separation, maybe that was what the dream meant, the literal translation of wanting to find himself in bed with a certain politician was certainly true but it was the deeper feeling in the dream which made him believe the time had come to move on, and therefore out, of his marriage. 

‘Sir, do you mind if I join you?’ Danny’s followed him outside and Greg only just stops himself from jumping in response to his near noiseless approach.

‘Nah Danny I don’t mind, but seriously call me Greg’ the young man turns a little red and Greg realises it really pretty cold in the drizzle, he indicates for them to move closer to the wall where an outside heater is producing a steady stream of heat which only really reaches a small patch of the area, ‘Do you smoke Dan?’

‘Oh, um, yes, yes I do’ he waits for the young man to light up but he just stands there his arms wrapped tightly across his chest, he seems nervous, Greg thinks he might be about to be asked for Sally’s number or relationship status or something just as awkward already preparing a speech about how fraternizing amongst team members is risky and how Sally is older than him, ‘I forgot mine in the office, can I borrow one?’ Greg reaches for his packet and after Danny selects one he holds up his lighter while the young man pulls in a mouthful of the smoke, he splutters on the exhale and Greg wonders if they’re stronger than he’s used to, he’s been meaning to cut down on the tar, he likes the ones he’s shared with Mycroft on occasion, they leave him with a smoother taste than the ones he’s used to.

They stand in silence for a little while, each smoking their cigarettes, Greg thinks Danny might be going slightly pale but he’s not certain, he thinks the chill must be reaching him when he notices the slight tremor in his hand,

‘You alright Danny?’  The colour in his companions cheeks return a little as watches,

‘Yes sir, I mean Greg, I’m fine, I was just thinking, maybe we could get a drink tonight, I would quite like to discuss something with you but it seems awkward amongst our colleagues’

‘Sure, we’ll head out at six yeah?’

‘Excellent’ Danny stubs out his half finished cigarette while smiling broadly 

The rest of the day is spent finishing the reports he’d started earlier, while he’s finishing the one that concerns Mina he decides to call John when he finishes work, he’s wondered about the little girl today. It concerned him that she’d been so scared of him; he hoped the response wouldn’t last. It had made it all the worse when she’d taken so readily to Mycroft, not that he was jealous of the man having a relationship with his niece but he’d held her so naturally he’d felt a deep pull of something in his gut that made him uncomfortable. He knew his friends were still mourning the loss of their friend and brother but seeing their easy love of this girl made him miss the warm looks he’d grown used to receiving from the elder Holmes brother. He understood that there were few people on the planet that knew the softer Mycroft Holmes, he was glad he got to see the man share it with someone new, someone new that all three of them would all hold precious.

When he’d found her in that place, hiding behind a rat infested cupboard he’d sworn to himself he’d look after her, she was so young, the youngest they’d found so far and there was so much wrong with someone so small, precious and innocent being somewhere so full of the smells of death. The idea of her witnessing half the activities they’d already known had taken place in the den made him feel physically sick and all that was before he learnt her parentage. His sadness had only increased as he imagined informing Mycroft of his niece’s existence, he knew he’d blame himself for her condition and for her having lived without their influence for so long.

He’d been right, he’d witnessed firsthand the mans terrible guilt when John had left the room the night before, he’d confided in Greg his feelings, how he was conflicted about the future and how he would be able to help this little girl who’d seen so much so young. He’d tried to comfort him, had been brave enough to embrace the young man briefly, when he’d pressed his face briefly into Greg’s neck he’d felt the tears that decorated Mycroft’s face. He’d felt the dull ache he’d grown so used to while Sherlock had been new to consulting work, whenever he’d had to inform Mycroft of Sherlock having a bad day, a bad reaction, his concern about Sherlock’s social interactions, he’d felt it then, this time it was worse, he’d felt tears prick his own eyes as he’d held Mycroft through his sobs. That he was attracted to him he’d never denied but until that moment he’d never allowed himself to realise how deeply attached he was to the man.

The trip round John’s local Tesco had been entertainingly novel, watching Mycroft push a trolley and exclaim over the price of milk had warmed his heart, walking behind the man and watching him stretch, exposing the true shape of his back, watching him sway his hips slightly, unconsciously emphasising his enviable backside, Greg had been so lost in his desire to stand close behind him, whisper in his ear, kiss his neck that he’d almost missed the exchange between Mycroft and the woman buying yoghurt. He’d looked up in time to see the woman, no older than thirty, throw a large pot of natural yoghurt at Mycroft, the fact the put had opened spoke both the woman’s strength and the force behind the throw, Mycroft had been decorated by the dairy product but what made Greg laugh the hardest was not the look of the bespoke suit newly decorated it was the look of pure shock on Mycroft’s face. He’d had to use the trolley as a brace while he laughed so hard he found it difficult to breath, he’d looked younger in that moment, the surprise forcing him to drop his proper persona for one so much more like Sherlock. He’d considered Greg leaning over the trolley and had quickly scooped up a hand full of the yoghurt and slapped it in Greg’s face. Greg hadn’t stopped laughing, he didn’t care if he looked moronic but being there with Mycroft had been the happiest he remembered feeling in months, since well before Sherlock had died.

He’d asked him later what he’d said to make the woman so angry, he’d answered that he had no clue, he’d simply pointed out that diet yoghurts would not help her lose weight and that it was more her deep seated emotional issues that formed the issue, for that he’d ended up covered in yoghurt. Mycroft seemed to think this reaction was unjust while Greg had to agree with the woman when she’d called him a dick, he’d never seen Mycroft struggle with social interaction before but when he thought back on it he’d never seen the man interact with someone other than family, colleagues or he supposed himself. He was polite with the staff of the places they visited together but never engaged in conversation, with Sherlock the conversations tended to revolve around sneers and with colleagues he was sharp and direct, only around Greg had he seen Mycroft truly drop the iceman persona, he’d see him drop it again that evening when he held Mina for the first time. 

He’s come to the end of his reports and it’s nearly six, revving himself up for what is sure to be an awkward conversation with the youngest member of his team he collects his coat and wallet while powering down his computer. He’ll come back for his work notes later he decides before locking up his office. Six o’clock is early to leave the office for him, he doesn’t really want to arrive home while his wife is still awake as that’ll just facilitate awkward conversations about Dylan her latest lover, Greg’s long work hours and his inability to provide everything he blindly promised her in their twenties. Yes avoiding that would be preferable.

Danny’s waiting for him by the elevators; he waves across at Sally who’s brandishing a folder at Anderson while refusing to make eye contact with him. She raises an eyebrow at his leaving early and with one of his subordinates but Greg is certain there’s no need for that, the young man fancies her not him and besides there’s an even greater age gap between them than Danny and Sally, it’d be foolish to think this was anything other than the young man asking advice.

They found themselves at Sam’s again, hardly a novel experience for Greg to be here twice in a day the bar keeper merely raises a hand in greeting before turning back to his patrons at the bar. Greg finds himself sat in a booth opposite a somewhat eager looking Danny, he orders a salad from the waitress; something lighter after the burger he had at lunch. He nurses the beer in front of him quietly as he contemplates how best to put the idea of Donovan’s inappropriateness into his dinner partners head. He decides to simply spell it out, better to be honest he thinks than let this carry on through what could be a nice dinner.

Danny’s opening his mouth to speak when Greg simply states, ‘You shouldn’t date Donovan you know, I mean it’s not that there’s anything wrong with her. She’s lovely and maybe that’s why you like her, but believe me getting involved with someone you work with so closely won’t be good, the MET doesn’t like it for one thing and while I’m a bit more lenient than some of the other D.I.’s I really don’t think it’s a good idea.’

Danny seems shocked, his mouth hangs open slightly and Greg translates the stunned look into surprise at his abruptness and decides to let the young man catch up before saying anything else.

There food arrives and they eat in relative awkwardness, at least he got it out of the way Greg thinks, he’s always liked the chicken Caesar salad here, the chef always puts minimal dressing on Greg’s with a small amount on the side so he can add as his mood prefers, he wonders if they serve Caesar salad in Italy or if it’s just another bastardisation that the British or American’s came up with, whoever it was it’s highly tasty.

His dinner companion clears his throat; Greg meets his eyes with a smile hoping to recreate the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed on previous occasions,

‘Sir, Greg, I think there’s a chance you’ve misunderstood me, I don’t want to date Sally.’

‘Oh, well I’m sorry then, make my earlier comments obsolete. I thought I saw a spark that’s all.’ Greg understands the awkwardness a little more now; at least he doesn’t have to worry about the boy losing his heart to his right hand lady.

‘No, She’s nice and all but you see,’ there’s a pause where Greg feels the awkwardness increase, has he insulted him, is he about to insult Sally, that could get ugly, ‘It’s just I’m gay so she’s really not my type.’

‘You’re Gay! Oh well I guess that makes sense then. No don’t go getting worried it doesn’t matter, I’m bisexual and you’re not the only gay member of the team. We don’t care who you fancy as long as you work hard.’ The man looks relieved and Greg wonders if maybe this conversation was because Danny was worried about the comments people made about the MET being homophobic, Greg knows it’s true in some departments but it would never be in his, his sexuality had never stopped him doing a job why would he think it would stop anyone else, ‘Look Danny I know it’s a bit awkward around some of the other blokes sometimes because the banters very heteronormative but you don’t need to fret, throw back comments about blokes and no one will bat an eye lid, you’re a good copper Danny, your sexuality doesn’t change a bit of the respect I have for you. You’re going to do great work and we’re going to help you. You don’t need to hide who you are.’

If people actually glowed when they were happy Greg reckons Danny might be bright right now, he smiles more broadly relieved that the awkwardness is over. It’s always good for people to know where they stand with their colleagues and now he can keep and eye on him and make sure no one outside the department ever acts inappropriately, he’s never stood for it and that won’t change now.

They finish their meal happily discussing the latest football match and their colleagues, he’s glad to learn Danny’s making friends; he knows himself how hard it can be to work in their world without support. They stop for a cigarette before Danny heads home and Greg heads back to the office, the banter is easy and he thinks looking back on it he shouldn’t have been shocked when the man placed a chaste kiss on his mouth, the flirting should have been obvious but he’d missed it, somewhere between thinking Danny had been in love with Sally and finding out he was gay he’d missed the flirting. When Greg fails to respond Danny moves forward to repeat the action, Greg falls into the wall in his haste to stop it. He can see the hurt in Danny’s face and he hates himself a little because he thinks now he could have stopped this before it got painful for anyone.

‘I can’t, oh God I’m sorry I’m married.’

‘You’re what, but you, you don’t wear a ring, you’re not wearing a ring, you never mentioned anyone!’ he seems angry now and Greg understands, he understands because even though he’s estranged from his wife he could never be unfaithful, not in reality, he’s never made his move on Mycroft because he’s not free, free to be with the person he wants, he made a vow and until it’s dissolved he won’t be able to do anything.

‘I’m sorry Danny but it’s true, I’m married, I can’t do this, I’m sorry.’

‘No don’t, God I’m a fool, it doesn’t matter, pretend it didn’t happen, please, just.’ Danny turns and leaves and Greg doesn’t stop him.

He walks back to his office, locking himself in the room before Sally can interrupt him; he leaves the lights off and falls ungraciously into his chair. He should be flattered he thinks but in reality he just feels slightly sick and very sad. Sad for himself because his first kiss in six months just came from a young man he respects but has no feelings for but also for Danny, he doesn’t want things to be awkward but he thinks there’s no way to avoid it. Rejection hurts people especially if you’re not expecting it. He needs to talk to someone but the only person he wants to talk to would most likely scoff at his predicament, he decides to take a chance more because he misses his voice than anything else,

‘Mycroft Holmes’

‘Hi Mycroft its Greg’

‘Gregory’ he’s always thought he was able to feel it when Mycroft says his full name, it sends shivers down his spine to hear it almost purr out in Mycroft’s baritone voice. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’ he suddenly feels awkward, Mycroft dismissing his concerns would be a blow and he feels slightly fragile already, ‘you know what this was stupid, ignore it, just how are you?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot ignore it, you sound distressed, did something happen? Are you well?’

‘Yes, I’m alright, it’s just, something weird happened and I didn’t know what to do and for some reason I thought of you.’

‘Well then the answer is clear, share your tale Gregory, I’ve nowhere to be’ and so Greg tells him, he explains how his day went, Mycroft laughs and reacts at appropriate moments and the conversation runs smoothly until he gets to dinner. He explains what happened, filling in details where he can, Mycroft is silent throughout until Greg reaches the kiss, he hears Mycroft draw his breath quickly and he stammers to explain what he said and how it had ended. There’s silence for a long while before anyone speaks again,

‘What are you going to do Lestrade?’ the use of his last name hits him as significant, he doesn’t know why,

‘I don’t know, I can’t move him, if I do what message does it send, I want to ignore it but I don’t know if that will work.’

‘Maybe not,’ there’s silence again, ‘why did you call me Gregory?’ he’s glad to be addressed by his first name again,

‘Because I don’t know what to do and you’re the smartest man I know.’ Silence again before a short laugh, it doesn’t sound like Mycroft’s normal laugh and Greg wonders if he’s right in thinking it sounds self deprecating, that’s most likely some form of wishful thinking though,

‘Well Gregory all I can say is this, he kissed you because you’re very attractive, you can’t blame him for that, as for what to do, well two options, you use your influence to move him departments, something you are right to avoid, the other is that you behave in the manner I know you will and treat him as a team member and an equal.’ Greg takes a minute to absorb this but before he can agree that this is the correct course of action Mycroft speaks, ‘and of course it goes without saying that if he ever kisses you again I can always deport him.’  

All Greg can do is laugh, he hears Mycroft join him, his tension ebbs away shortly and he thinks this might be why he loves this man, he loves him and it hits him so hard he loses his breath. There’s silence on the other end as Mycroft composes himself, the image of him sitting behind his desk smiling does odd things to Greg’s heart.

‘Thank you Mycroft’

‘You are most welcome Gregory, perhaps next time you call there will be no crisis and I would like to hear from you without something dire having occurred.’

‘We can arrange that I’m sure’

‘Good, goodnight Gregory, go home, your wife won’t be in tonight.’

‘Thanks, goodnight Mycroft.’

‘Sleep well dear friend.’ With that Mycroft hangs up and Greg decides to go home.

It’s dark and as empty as Mycroft promised, he goes to bed that night more peacefully than he deserves and when he dreams, he dreams of a deep baritone, soft skin and the pressure of soft lips against his own.


	10. One Month of Fatherhood Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People on twitter wanted me to make a few things clear;
> 
> *** = change of perspective (this chapter has John and Mycroft's in) or a jump in time during the chapter, basically means something changes. 
> 
> Italics = a recollection 
> 
> Also vague trigger warnings: Discussions of issues relating to recovery from trauma, If you've read to this point you know Mina's been through some terrible things but there's a little more detail here. Please look after yourselves and read safe. MJ x

****John thought that maybe If he didn’t move Mycroft would leave he’d heard him call out upon entering the front door downstairs but had yet to answer, he’d just managed to get Mina to take a nap, she’d started having restless nights three nights ago and hadn’t stopped since, they’d been together for three weeks and apart from the two A.M. wake up calls they’d yet to run into anything insurmountable, except perhaps the state of the flat, John had realised early on, approximately twenty four hours into fatherhood, that maintaining a tidy home while being the sole parent for an eighteen month old who in reality was highly mobile was anything but easy.

The walk from the sofa to the kitchen had become an obstacle course of building blocks, cuddly toys and most noticeably an antique rocking horse Mycroft had bought the evening of Mina’s third day at 221b, ‘The creature’  as John liked to call it was hand carved with a softened leather saddle and hair which had seemed so real John had been forced to ask Mycroft if it was, the man had treated him to a Mycroft patented look of disdain (John couldn’t say he’d missed them) before reassuring him that the hair was made out of woven strands of fine silk, they’d been tied together at the back in a braid and Mycroft had taken great delight in telling Mina the exact bread and temperament of the horse it was modelled after. It transpired that both rocking horses and horse training were large parts of growing up a Holmes, John had wondered what Sherlock had thought of the, in John’s opinion, aristocratic tradition, when Mycroft had promised to buy Mina a horse when she was old enough John had felt the need to input that she’d only need a horse if she took up horse riding which was in no way a given, Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at this before being distracted by Mina’s babbling while she stroked the main of the horse. John had to admit she’d been taken with it, he’d found her today clinging the table so she could load her Ewok toy on the horses saddle without falling over.

From where he was crouching leaning against the stretch of wall between the door to 221b and the kitchen’s baby gate he could see the glassy gaze of the horse and felt the irrational roll of fear through his gut that told him someone was watching him,

‘You do realise, Dr Watson that you have not become invisible?’

Well perhaps the feeling wasn’t completely irrational, he turned his head slightly to make eye contact with Mycroft and there he stood with his hip leaning against the baby gate, looking impeccable in a three piece suit, smirking down at John crouching on the floor, wearing a comfortable t-shirt and soft faded jeans, it was irrational to feel underdressed in one’s own home but John managed it.

‘Good afternoon Mycroft, I’m afraid Mina is asleep.’ While John moved off the floor Mycroft checked his watch,

‘I wasn’t aware she took naps at this time, I thought it was just in the morning?’ John nodded his head in agreement, she’d refused to go down earlier, she’d woken at three that morning and had refused to sleep alone since, she’d curled up on John’s chest as he’d read her a story in Sherlock’s bed but the second he’d moved to put her down she’d woken up.

‘The thing is she’s not sleeping well, she’ll wake up early in the morning, I think from a nightmare,’ after the first night of screaming cries waking him he’d slept next to her crib all night, his hand resting against the bars while she clung to whichever of his fingers she could reach, ‘she, she’s not doing well at being alone, she sleeps ok when I’m there with her but, she just, she just gets scared.’

Mycroft didn’t answer immediately, he leant his back against the cabinets in the kitchen while John boiled the kettle and drifted cleaning up the mess from lunch, he’d started trying her with different types of soup, some she loved and others got thrown on the table while his back was turned. He’d fought hard not to laugh when he’d turned around and seen her decorated with Mrs Hudson’s carrot and parsnip soup this afternoon but she’d managed to smear a large portion of it into her hair and the look of pure butter wouldn’t melt innocence on her face made it impossible to keep the giggles down.  

‘You know John it strikes me that we’ve all been quite focused on making her happy now rather than dealing with the negative ramifications left over from her early life experiences.’ John felt himself bristle with anger, did Mycroft honestly think he didn’t remember everyday exactly what he’d read in that folder, he’d seen for himself some of the marks her early years in those monsters care had given her and he had to squash the violent reaction he had to the knowledge of their existence every time she screamed for him in the night.

‘I don’t ever forget what she’s been through Mycroft’ he says it quietly because he doesn’t have it in him to yell, not about this, misplacing his anger at Mycroft was a mistake he’d made months ago when it came to Sherlock but with this there was no just cause.

‘Forgive me John, I know you must think about it often’ John places his focus on making tea, it’s a repetitive activity which has always bought him peace, it feels inherently British to use the preparation of tea as a mask for his emotions but he’s not ready to discuss all of his feelings with Mycroft, with Greg he is more comfortable, but the lessons Sherlock taught him about not revealing weaknesses to the government official are harder to shake. The man’s been practically perfect since Mina came into John’s life, his appearances are still unannounced but he makes John’s life easier in any way he can, food and home provisions appear like clockwork, when John mentions a food Mina is taken with, raspberries are the latest, the next day John can expect to be furnished with every variety of them Mycroft, or Mycroft’s people perhaps, can think of. He’s learnt to be selective with what he mentions in the nightly phone calls he now receives, Mycroft checks in on the dot of eight thirty, time enough for John to have made a cup of tea after putting Mina to bed, they speak for twenty minutes and John reports on any and all developments before the standard conversation ending reminding him that his security team will be ready in the morning for any outings John and Mina may take.

‘There’s nothing to forgive Mycroft, I understand why you’re worried, I just, I wanted to point out that you should never think I don’t worry because I worry, I worry about her constantly, I’ve been sleeping on the floor in her room during her naps in the hope that she’ll get more than half an hours sleep, I watch her interactions with any strangers she meets to make sure they don’t frighten her, I do, I am trying to do everything I can,’

Mycroft nods and the silence between the starts to edge towards awkward, he doesn’t know what reassurances to give, he wants to explain that it’s nothing like when Sherlock was ill or danger nights because he thinks that might be where the panic stems from, but before he can even think about how to frame the topic the baby monitor lights up and they hear Mina upstairs, her panics are the most vocal she gets, John’s been reading every journal he can in the moments he has to himself but none of them contain enough information about how to handle what to him seems like a panic attack, he’s concerned it’s a manifestation of separation anxiety but whenever he thinks that he feels the irrational need to cling to Mina and never put her down, he knows that would be unhealthy, as such he has refrained from his impulses and not moved her crib into Sherlock’s room,

‘I better get her, sorry’ Mycroft looks the most distressed John’s seen him since Sherlock’s funeral, he understands, the sound is distressing not only because they cut through you but also because you can hear her anguish in the tone of the cries, he jogs up the stairs, eager not to show too much panic to Mycroft or appear distressed in front of Mina.

She’s clinging to the bars of her crib when he walks into the room; the blackout curtains are drawn so the room is bathed in the starlight her bee nightlight creates,

‘It’s ok baby girl,’ he lifts her into his arms so she can cling to his jumper, this has become their routine, he lifts her out and sits rocking on the wooden chair Mrs Hudson had insisted he buy, on the occasions she shakes when he holds her he drapes the royal blue throw over their bodies, she calms eventually, always with her face pressed into his neck and her hands gripping tightly to the weave of whatever jumper or top he’s wearing.  He rocks back and forth murmuring soothing sounds and reassurances for as long as she needs.

***

Mycroft can hear them over the speaker of the baby monitor, he feels he should shut it off and allow them the privacy they deserve but he can’t make himself, he’s been spoilt by the amount of positive time he’s spent with his niece since he found out about her but this, these cries and the noises John makes to comfort her, the sentimental words of love and belonging, this is the reality, there’s so much she needs that none of them know how to provide or give.

He hears the light tread on the stairs and moves to stand, it’s most likely Mrs Hudson but he’ll take no chances, his hand moves to rest on his chest so he can make the short move to the counter where he knows the knife draw is, it becomes obvious his caution was over zealous when Mrs Hudson knocks on the open door,

‘Mycroft dear did I hear you come in?’

‘Yes Mrs Hudson,’ he moves to great her and quickly helps by removing the majority of the boxes she has resting in her arms, he lifts the security lock on the baby gate to allow her access to the main living space, ‘watch your step Mrs Hudson, Mina would appear to have built a small maze of obstacles for our collective enjoyment’ he’s found it easier to get along with the woman since Sherlock’s death. She found him once when he visited Sherlock’s grave, she’d come to change the flowers, he later found out she did this every Sunday, he’d been sitting staring at the black headstone and cursing his own stupidity. He’d watched Sherlock near constantly threw the years of his addiction but once he removed himself from the world, once he moved in to 221b, once he found John, he’d begun to worry about his wellbeing less. He’d watched just as closely on occasion but the majority of the time he’d taken a step back. He received two, instead of four, security briefings a day and removed Sherlock’s security team altogether after the third time Dr Watson accosted his brother would be attacker before the team had even mobilised. She’d joined him in his contemplation, laying a hand on the one he had clenched on his knee, they didn’t speak but every Sunday since they met there, shared stories they had of the periods of Sherlock’s life they’d both known well. When he’d offered to pay her for the upkeep of 221b for the foreseeable future the older woman had smiled softly at him and said it was his for as long as he needed.

He watched her now navigate the clutter with practiced ease, he wondered If Mina was responsible for more or less mess than Sherlock used to make, certainly the Kitchen was clearer.

‘What fine things have you bought John and Mina then Mrs Hudson?’

‘Just some food so John doesn’t have to worry so much,’ she moves to pick up the baby monitor, ‘She’s been crying more recently, I catch John sometimes fast asleep on the sofa while she’s playing, I don’t think it’s easy with them both having nightmares.’  Mycroft considers this, he hadn’t thought about the impact this situation would be having on John’s mental health, with a history of PTSD heightened levels of stress could have a detrimental effect on everyday life. He’s not noticed a tremor in his hand but that first day they had re-entered 221b John had been walking with a slight limp. It had not been overtly noticeable but it had been present enough for Mycroft to pick up on it.

‘Does John suffer from them often Mrs Hudson?’ He thinks it might have been the tone of his voice which makes her turn to him but either way she faces him with something bordering on anger in her features,

‘Now you listen to me Mycroft Holmes, he’s a good man and a good father, he’s handling it perfectly, you don’t go interfering or we’ll be having words young man. Understood?’

‘Understood Mrs Hudson, but please do not worry, I am only concerned for John’s wellbeing, if he requires more help I would like to be able to provide it. He is disrupting his life to do something wonderful for my family; I do not want him to struggle under a pressure which most likely should not be his.’  His parents have started applying more pressure to meet their granddaughter, he understands the need but he has been holding them off for John’s sake, he had never been introduced while Sherlock was alive, the relationship between he and his mother had never recovered after the incident in Sherlock’s early twenties, they were civil but not close, Sherlock and his father however, they had always been close, his mother may be pushing to meet Mina but for his father it was all about John. In his weekly phone conversations with Sherlock John had apparently become rather a constant feature, Siger was eager to meet the man Sherlock thought of so highly. Young children had never been his speciality but once they had been old enough to communicate their father had been a constant source of adventures.

Mrs Hudson smiled slightly before moving back to loading the boxes into the fridge, there was noise coming from upstairs now, Mina had quietened but it seemed as if John was giving up on the premise of her taking a nap.

‘You know that nice police officer comes over quite often, I think his marriage is in trouble.’

‘Have you been eaves dropping Mrs Hudson, awfully inconsiderate of you’ Mrs Hudson raises a single eyebrow at him, she was a highly affectionate woman with those she deemed worthy but she was also a gossip. He had been trying for years to maintain a mask of indifference when it came to conversations concerning Gregory Lestrade but he had to admit it had become more of a struggle as of late.  It was true that the D.I’s marriage was an unhappy one, the man said so himself but the truth remained that Lestrade had been saying so for years, they had shared slightly drunken phone conversations on the numerous occasions he had discovered his wife had once again been unfaithful and yet he never left her. The one occasion Mycroft had taken the liberty to suggest it as a course of action the older man seemed to panic leaving their dinner an hour earlier than usual. He had never taken the liberty again but instead sat as friend and listened to the tails of Denise Lestrade’s betrayal.

‘It would never be my intention to speak ill of an acquaintances marriage but I do not believe Mr Lestrade is very happy currently no,’ the look of the Landlady’s face is entirely to knowing and Mycroft wonders when he started allowing sentiment to play on his face so clearly.

‘You know he’s a very attractive man Mycroft’ he represses a blush while inclining his head to her, he would not take the liberty of confirming her impression although he does make a mental note to be more careful with which emotions he allows to play across his face. He’s become worse at maintaining the facade in recent months and if he fails to correct the defect it will undoubtedly have a negative impact on his work.

‘Who’s a very attractive man Mrs Hudson?’ John rejoins them in the kitchen with Mina balanced on his hip. His niece, who normally smiles when she sees him, presses her face further into Johns jumper as he starts assembling her bottle, he wants to offer to take her so the job will be easier for John but from the death grip she’s got on her jumper and the look of tiered concern on John’s face he’s better off staying silent.

‘I was just saying that your police officer friend Greg has been coming over to see you dear’ Mycroft starts to feel awkward when everyone in the room is doing something while he stands leaning against a counter, he looks around for something constructive to do and spots a washing basket on one of the chairs on the opposite side. He may never have folded laundry before but how hard could it honestly be, he was the owner of two bachelor degrees, two masters and one doctorate, domestic chores should hold no challenge when placed against those achievements.

So he sits and unloads the washing basket onto the table, removing his jacket he starts organising the clothes into categories, he divided by owner , then by clothing classification from there he divided by occasion for John, casual, work, social and for Mina he went with a more functionality system, sleep wear, day wear, there was one example of something Mycroft would consider formal for a child, a white dress with large black dots, it seemed to be cotton in material but had little sleeves which would only cover the top of the child’s shoulder, he would not have guessed John would purchase her something of this ilk he had noticed the doctor straying away from anything too overtly gendered, Mina was more often than not in dungarees and a t-shirt when he visited, he had to admit the clothing was practical and allowed Mina a ease of movement he could not see a dress allowing.

He looked up to ask John where the dress had come when he realised no one in the room was talking, both adults were stood staring between the kitchen table and himself while he held the white dress, had he overstepped the social boundaries on this occasion, it was highly possible, by attempting to offer aid perhaps he had once again managed to imply John was somehow lacking.

‘Forgive me John I was simply trying to be useful’ John shakes his head and smiles at Mycroft.

‘So all Holmes brothers have an organisation gene when it comes to clothes then? I have to admit your brother’s wardrobe and chest of draws were something to behold. Which reminds me,’ John passes him Mina, a task which is made slightly awkward by Minas focus on her beaker, he moves to support her in a similar hold to the one John had been using, he made it appear more natural than it seems to Mycroft, he felt unbalanced with Mina’s weight settled on one hip and arm, he hears John enter the back bedroom and sounds of rustling keep his attention until he feels small hands playing with his waistcoat, Mina always has a fascination with his clothing, John had made a joke last time that it was because she never saw someone so well dressed in her everyday life, he had noticed on numerous occasions her fascination with shiny objects and as such had worn a silver pocket watch today for her amusement.

Her eyes widen when he presets her with the antique, it was a Holmes heirloom passed down through generations, she moves it in the light seemingly fascinated by the changing gleam of the metal,  

‘Ok so when I was putting away things in Sherlock’s room I found these albums, I wondered if you might want them or I guess maybe your parents might.’

John passes across two photo albums he recognises, the pressed leather covers are the same as those which cover his own albums at home, their mother in one of her sentimental phases had compiled them for both of her sons,

‘There were three books when I found them but I can’t seem to find the other, but these were the ones I had a quick look through and thought you might like.’ Mycroft flicks the front cover open, knowing he’ll find a chronological look of Sherlock’s life, sure enough pictures of his brother from before he was Mina’s age stare back at him through the album, the first chronicles a large portion of his life, his mother was highly selective in the pictures she included knowing Sherlock would not accept too many from his more photograph friendly younger years, the older he became the more he ran when Violet Holmes revealed her camera. It did not surprise him that the second album had photographs missing between full pages, most likely the ones that had been contained in those pages featured people Sherlock wanted to delete. He imagined Victor and Sebastian had been removed from the University examples.

‘It is very kind of you to offer John but I have albums similar to this at my home, my mother goes through phases of interest in certain pastimes, a few years ago it was photo albums and she made two for both of us. I’m not sure what the third one could be but perhaps a notebook rather than something containing photographs? I fail to imagine Sherlock continuing our mother’s diversions.’

John takes both the albums back and moves through the kitchen to place them on the bookcase in the living room, very little about 221b has changed since Mina’s arrival, more objects clutter the living room but nothing seems to have been removed, Mycroft notes the exception would appear to be Sherlock’s violin which has been returned to its case and placed on a high shelf, all the better to keep it from tiny hands.

‘Actually John there was a purpose to my visit today. Seeing as we are discussing family it seems like an appropriate moment to mention it. My parents would like to arrange a meeting, one where they will have the opportunity to meet you and Mina as well as learn more about the decisions that are being made for her future?’ John lowers himself into the red chair framing the fireplace, he looks mildly concerned but Mycroft deduces the cause is most likely nerves,

‘What decisions do you mean?’

‘Well at this moment the decisions would revolve around childcare I suppose, but soon you will need to decide on schools and my parents may have suggestions for you with regard to that. Let me stress that you are under no obligation to follow their advice, but they are who they are and education is something they both remain passionate about.’ Mycroft returns his focus to his niece who he has balanced on his knee while he took the seat opposite John, she has fascinating facial features, he can see the similarities between the child and Sherlock but the faint differences as well as her youth have given her face a softer look, when she smiles her cheek bones are more pronounced but they form more rosy dimples than Sherlock’s severe version.

***

John watches Mycroft and Mina interact, Mycroft’s dual nature confuses the hell out of him, Sherlock once described him as the most dangerous man in the country and yet here he was sitting in Sherlock’s leather chair allowing his niece to play with a pocket watch John is certain would be worth more than any other item in the room and yet he doesn’t flinch when Mina starts trying to chew it, merely smiles and tucks a loose curl behind her ear.

Then there’s the question of Sherlock’s parents, John’s racked his mind to find any mention of them he can, as he doesn’t have a mind palace his efforts have been relatively fruitless, he remembers Sherlock mentioning their existence post case once but he would never provide details, he only garnered their names when a flower arrangement had arrived at 221b with a note asking Mrs Hudson to ensure they arrived at the house, he’s not proud of the fact he read the card they placed on the arrangement for Sherlock, he doesn’t think he would have wanted anyone reading one if he’d written it but there you are,  it had been a simple cream card with black cursive script,

_We will always miss you, our little prince, Love M & D  _

Mycroft has placed Mina on the floor now and she’s clinging to the edge of the chair while he speaks to her, he’s explaining the history of the watch she’s currently grasping in the hand not helping her stand. It’s an interesting story but John can’t focus on Mycroft’s words. He considers his own mother and the frankly terrible relationship he has with her, Mina will never know her if he can control the situation, he can’t think of anything more toxic to a child who’s already seen so much, but her growing up without grandparent seems unfair. He worries about her socialisation, so far her family consists of himself and Mycroft, there’s Mrs Hudson whom John is certain will provide love and support as Mina ages but it could surely only be a positive to increase the number of people that love her.

‘Your parents, did they say when they wanted to visit? There isn’t enough room for them to stay here unfortunately.’

Mycroft looks pleased, John thinks he might have been preparing himself for more of a battle to get John to agree to a meeting but really he can’t see the harm in them having interactions with their granddaughter. It would be cruel to keep her away from them and John knows that if he feels at any point that it’s drifted to something he isn’t comfortable with he can leave with Mina and no one can stop him. Mycroft wouldn’t dare try when it comes to Mina, the legal adoption took place within a week and legally John has full custody of her.

‘My parents would be happy to fit around your schedule, this is kind of you John, they will stay for the duration of their visit with me and perhaps I might be bold enough to suggest you and Mina visit with them there. My property has slightly more space as well as the benefit of a staff that can handle preparations.’

John nods his assent and moves to fetch his diary, he’s taken a leave of absence from work and hasn’t started to consider going back to it yet, he knows he can no longer work full time and the state his finances must be in has started to pray on his mind and yet there’s been no angry notes from credit card companies demanding payment, so far nothing but he knows he will need to return to work eventually which will mean finding childcare for Mina for at least three days a week, he doesn’t know where to start with that, she doesn’t like strangers and is very selective about who she’ll interact with. The doctor he’s seen for her weight check up expressed concern at her still not attempting to speak but since then she had become more vocal with noises, John would occasionally come across her humming a tune to her toys while she played and they’d been working successfully on animal sounds since it became apparent she loved the horse and animal toys to such a degree.

He’d started making up stories for her at bed time when she was restless, he based them on his and Sherlock’s adventures but re-enacted with animals. He’d yet to fix on a set animal as the lead characters but they added a nice variety for the nights when he was trying to sooth her back to sleep but was too tiered to read. She seemed to enjoy spoken word sounds above music; he’d tried her with nursery rhymes and classical music but fought sleep harder on those occasions.  

‘Why don’t they come up this weekend if they can, and if it suits you, we haven’t got anything planned but I said me and Mina would pop into White Rabbit to see Tammy for a little while on Friday morning.’  He’d returned to the store two days later to exchange one of the pairs of shoes he’d bought, Mina wasn’t really at a stage where mini Doc Martins were practical, he’d left with plenty of new options as well as a phone number;

_‘Okay I want you to take this card; it has my mobile number on the back’_

_‘Oh, oh I mean, I’m flattered and everything but I don’t think I’m in a place to date right now Tammy I’m sorry’_

_*Laughter*_

_‘Okay well now I’m confused why is that funny?’_

_‘John why would I want to date you? Unless you’re secretly a woman, and if you are well done with the whole facial hair thing, you’re not my type?’_

_‘Oh, you’re a, I mean you’re’_

_‘Gay, yes, yes I am, so no it’s not for a date. It’s because you’re a cool guy who likes star wars and I wouldn’t mind a new friend.’_

_‘I, well, Okay then’ he turned to leave before walking back to the counter and using one of the pile of post it notes to write down his own number,_

_‘This is my mobile, Mina really likes you and I wouldn’t mind a new friend either so good.’_

The entire experience had been mortally embarrassing but he’d emerged from it with a new friend and someone he actually enjoyed spending time with outside of Sherlock, when he’d started seeing Ella again she’d told him explicitly to make his social group bigger outside of Sherlock and the people they had known together. Tammy was a good edition, Mina adored her in the same way she did Mycroft, doing her fast crawl to the baby gate which led to the stairs whenever she could hear them enter the building. He’d grown a lot closer to her than he would have expected but her eccentric nature meant she always made him laugh and in turn made Mina laugh, it made his life easier to fill it with people that made them both inherently happy.

‘I’m sure this weekend will work well John, thank you.’ He moves to the kitchen to collect his jacket, his visits don’t tend to last long and John will be glad to be free to return to his day, the laundry, although now expertly organised, needs placing in relevant draws and he’d thought about trying to organise the toys in the living room into something resembling order.   

‘Well John I will take my leave unless there is anything either of you need?’

‘No I can’t think of anything thank you Mycroft, tell your parents I look forward to meeting them.’

‘I will pass that along, I am sure the feeling is mutual, Mother was quite beside herself when she heard the news, perhaps meeting Mina will allow her to relax some.’

John laughs in response, considering how stressed all of them seem to be with Mina it would be a miracle if meeting her calmed Mrs Holmes any. ‘Well I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft moves to speak to Mina who’s moved herself to standing in front of her horse, ‘Goodbye Mina, be good.’ He kisses her head while she pats him on the cheek. John takes it as a sign of affection and from the small smile on Mycroft’s face he does the same. He watches from near the table while Mycroft descends the stairs,

He watches Mina for a few minutes, she’s been quite all through the visit, he’s become used to her little noises and being without them upsets him more than he can explain.  She smiles up at him then and moves so both arms are stretched towards him, she’s always more clingy after a nightmare but Mycroft’s appearance seemed to have distracted her, no matter, John had started developing skills in doing jobs one handed with his daughter balanced on his hip. 

Bending to collect her he moved to the kitchen, ‘Let’s get to work my little dove.’


	11. Project Poppy: Mr Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologise in advance here, ahead lies heavy angst. Graphic descriptions of violence, shock, a little gore, more angst and generally it's pretty depressing. 
> 
> I swear the last bit's better. I don't leave you on angst, but yeah *coughs* Just a little sorry.

‘Alright, Sergeant Donavon take your team to the west exit, the one which exits onto the dock, Sergeant Franklin take the east, the exit is a narrow doorway you’re looking at single file through their guys so be careful, the north side of the building leads straight onto the road and we’ve got roadblocks in all directions, I’ll be leaving the road blocks up to you Devin, you make sure everyone’s got full riot gear, okay?’ Devin gives him thumbs up from near the back, the Sergeant is built like a wall, solid muscle through and through, intimidating as hell to anyone.

 ‘The rest of us are forming the main forward team, we’re going straight through the front entrance. Remember yourselves guys, you’re in full gear for a reason, these perps will be armed, they won’t be firing warning shots so remember your training. Donovan we’ve likely got civilians in there, users and if intel is right we’re looking at some forced labour as well, you’re team is on extraction, get them out and get them out alive.’ Donovan who’s standing to his right nods her head, there’s a reason she’s in charge of extraction, she gets the job done and he trusts her to make the right decisions in the spur of the moment.

He doesn’t mention the kids to the room at large, she’ll brief her team on route but children being present will distract the majority, it’s a call he’s made based on the past two raids they’ve done. Good coppers are facing disciplinary action over their overzealous defence of child victims in raids, he needs them on their best for this and he knows Donovan will have it covered as well. ‘We’re taking paramedics with us and we’ve got the closest hospital on standby. We make our move when the floodlights are triggered. You know the drill people, no one be stupid, no one try and be a hero, we’ve got a responsibility to everyone of us and the civilians so let's keep this as clean as possible.’ He looks around at his team, they’re all ready to go, they were ready to go before briefing, they’ve been working and casing this group for a week, Intel has been clear about what to expect but it all got speeded up when they found out about the children the perpetrators were holding in the warehouse.

They load themselves into unmarked vans, Devin will follow with the police vehicles for the blockade, paramedics and ambulances will pull up once the operation begins and form a second block further back, the paramedics won’t be armed so they need for the first block to hold. They’re approaching the location; a seemingly abandoned docking warehouse on the water front, the abandoned front is hiding a wealth of drug production as well as human trafficking. Potential sex crimes and definite charges of abduction are likely. This is Project Poppies main aim, to clean up places like this which are forming crime bedrocks in London.

‘Radio check, Donovan you ready?’

‘Yes Sir’

Franklin?’

‘Yes Sir’

‘Devin you on our tail?’

‘We’re on silent approach sir, air support is showing little movement on the surrounding roads but we’re keeping the helicopter high to avoid detection. I’ll radio when we’re in position, Devin out.’

The van he’s in stops not far from the dock, the cover of darkness should help mask their approach but there’s always the possibility of early discovery with these jobs, he addresses his team, they’re some of the best the Mets got.

‘You all know the drill, we’ve got the mobile floodlights and helicopters which will kick in with my signal, then we’re likely to have a lot of confusion in the warehouse were the first team in so we’re likely to be the main focus of any counteraction, don’t panic when that happens, we’ve all been here before and we know the procedure. Keep an eye on your partner, this is not everyman for himself we are a highly organised, trained machine, we work as one, let’s go get the bastards and help keep the extractors safe.’  He makes sure to have eye contact with each of them, they all have a specific partner they work with on these types of raid, Donovan is his normally but with her leading her own team he’s partnered with Arnav, mans a trooper, always has been but he’s also one of the most un-ambitious men he’s ever met, he’s got his family and a job he loves, it’s what makes him great.  He knows every member of his team and he's lucky to like the vast majority of them too.

‘Alright, let’s do a last arms check and then get moved out.’ The team dutifully check their guns and ammunition. Then they move out, the journey to the front of the building feels like it takes an age, moving in near complete darkness is not a fun undertaking but it’s a necessity. 

The radios have all been turned to their lowest settings; they’re effectively in stealth conditions until their presence is declared;

‘Position check, Donovan’

‘Ready Sir’

‘Franklin’

‘Ready Sir’

‘Devin’

‘Block in place, surroundings secure’

‘Air support this is D.I. Lestrade indicating readiness for declaration, ready to move on activation of flood lights.’ There’s a moment of silence while the helicopter circling above receives their signal.

‘Accepted and understood, flood light activation in 30 seconds.’

From there the team moves on automatic, their presence is declared and Greg’s team breaks down the front door, they deploy smoke cover but as predicted they draw attention and fire, they swarm the chemical preparation area at the front of the building while Greg notices the other two teams entering from the sides, Donovan identifies the civilians easily and makes her move.  He loses sight of Franklin when some of the fighting intensifies, the drug producers and those users engaging with the police may be unorganised but there’s a mob presence here they didn’t know about, they were identifiable by their clothing and their abilities with guns.  The noise is oppressive, gun fire, hand to hand combat and more shouting than could ever be appreciated by anyone not experienced in raids, he and Arnav take down two men making their way towards Donovan’s team, the rest of the forward assault are making arrests and gathering criminals to take them out the vans which will have drawn up outside,

‘Donovan reporting civilian extractions complete two injuries but no fatalities.’  He hears his radio slightly over the din, he indicates to six members of his team to secure the side of the building Sally left through, they move and clear out the criminals between them and the exit, there’s a large man lumbering towards them now but between the two of them they manage to subdue him and get the zip tie around his wrists.  He indicates to Arnav to get him outside while he checks the office with two of the others; the three officers enter the room and check for individuals hiding in the corners or shadows of the room, P.C. Osborn calls clear from his right and he relaxes slightly, the office was the only place separate from the main room except the bathrooms which were by Franklin’s entrance, her team would have taken care of them as an immediate priority. He returns to the room to see three members of Franklin’s team taking down another behemoth of a man, but he appears to no longer be armed, he witnesses them wrestle him to the ground and tie both his hands and feet, it’s a technique used for the more difficult arrests but he appreciates its necessity.

‘Lestrade calling for status report, Donovan.’

‘Civilians Secure’

‘Devin.’

‘Block holding, medical professionals treating civilians ’

‘Arnav, status on criminal loading’

‘Criminals secure and loading underway.’

‘Franklin.’

Radio silence

‘Franklin report.’

Radio silence continues. Greg can feel a small needle of panic run through him as he moves towards Franklin’s entrance; he’s breaking into a run when the radio silence ends.

‘Franklin reporting minor injury sustained, two officers in need of medical assistance.’

Devin’s voice comes over the radio; it’s clear from his tone that Greg wasn’t alone in his panic;

‘Damn it Hannah, assistance on route.’  Franklin and Devin had been partners for five years before they both made Sergeant, they still worked together whenever possible but they both had teams of their own now.

Greg returns his attention to the warehouse, there were three distinct sections; the chemical workshop, what looked to be a sweatshop of some kind and the holding area for the civilians they’d removed. Forensics was in for a hell of a job with this one, the sheer amount of physical evidence would take an age to process.

A scream wrenches through the near silent warehouse, the officers still present look up in panic, it’s a woman’s voice, seeming to come from the office.

Oh God Sammy.

Greg draws his weapon once more and charges to the small room, two other officers are tight on his heels.

‘Osborn report’ the call comes through on his own radio but he can already see that Osborn won’t be answering it, she’s lying on the floor hands clutching her side, her face rapidly paling as her crimson blood covers the floor, a man is standing over her, the silver gleam of his knife covered in blood,

‘Drop your weapon!’ Greg hardly recognises his own voice, he raises his gun to point between the criminals eyes, ‘I said drop your weapon!’ the man tilts his head to the side and hisses before lunging towards the three armed officers blocking the door, Greg shoots his knees out from under him, the man doesn’t stop, he aims again and this time lands a solid impact in his chest, the man falters as the officer to his right moves to disable him, he drops his knife but moves to bite the officer he know identifies as Arnav, the two other officers take him to his injured knees and secure his wrists, this is all a secondary observation from Greg’s position beside Samantha, she’s only twenty five, far too young to be bleeding out in a warehouse.

He follows his instincts as he starts treating her, apply pressure to wound, keep her talking, one of the other officers has called for an ambulance response team, he can hear the sirens now, the screech of tires, he just keeps her talking, she wasn’t alone in this room, he remembers this now, he keeps talking but looks up, he sees P.C. Flowers head on the other side of the desk, another officer is applying first aid but he’s not responsive. Sammy’s crying under him,she’s such a strong woman, the paramedics are there, they have him move aside but he stays by her head talking, he’s not sure what he’s saying but he hopes it’s comforting, she keeps whispering apologies to him, all he can do is reassure her it isn’t necessary. The second team of paramedics are by P.C. Summers attempting resuscitation, he’s still not responding.  The paramedics move Sammy, he’s not supposed to follow, he has to secure the scene, he looks around the room in a daze, he sees a cabinet by Summers body, the door has been flung open, it’s a thin cabinet but Summers should have checked it before the clear was called, how could they have missed it, he sees him being carried off now, one of the paramedics is shaking his head and Greg knows the man is dead.

Code Zero.

Code Zero.

Code Zero.

Officer Down.

It’s buzzing through his brain and he can’t stop it. He’s lost a member of his team, another is gravely injured and he can’t do anything.  He stares at the cabinet and his mind goes blank. It changes into something full of violence rather than logic. There is something he can do. 

Code Zero.

Code Zero.

His mind won’t slow down, neither will his legs, he’s running at the ambulance he can see their trying to load the arrested man in, he’s fighting them, he should have lost too much blood to fight that hard, he’s trying to ram his shoulders into the ambulance crew. Greg can stop him, can put him down like the scum he is. take him down like he took down Summers and Sammy. He’s pulling his gun up; he locks eyes with the man for seconds before he’s hit by a wall of flesh, he’s being spun around, thick arms restraining him. A voice he recognises is right by his ear, speaking quietly but urgently.

‘Drop the gun Guv. He’s not worth it. Drop the gun’ Devin is restraining him. Doesn’t he understand what that man has done? What Greg let him do?

Sally’s in his face then, she’s got her hands clasped on either side of his head, there are tears in her eyes, she’s begging him;

‘Give me the gun Greg, please God Greg, give me the gun, Samantha needs you, come on Sammy needs you, give me the gun.’ he loosens his grip on it, she’s right he should be with Sammy, he hired her, she made him coffee in the mornings sometimes, he remembers even Sherlock liked her, she made him laugh, she’s so young.

Sally secures his gun, he realises he’s shaking, he’s going into shock, he looks down at his hands and realises they’re covered in blood, Sammy’s blood, definitely shock, he’s lost officers before but this is worse, she’s so young, it’s all he can think.

He looks around and everyone is crying, his team is crying, those that are still on the scene, the majority are gone, ambulances have left, civilians have left, the criminals have left, he hears the ambulance they’ve secured the man with the knife in leave from behind him, Devin releases his hold on Greg. He feels like his knees might give out but he needs to know everyone is alright. It’s his job, they’re his team and right now they need him.

‘Report’ his voice comes out in a croak but he clears it quickly, the second time its clearer if still watery, ‘Report’.

Donovan runs her hand under her eyes before straightening her spine,

‘Two officers experiencing minor injuries’ Devin starts the report from behind him, Greg moves so he can see both his Sergeants,

‘One officer fatality and one gravely wounded’ this report is unnecessary but there’s a procedure that needs to be followed,

‘Who called in the codes?’

‘Arnav and Franklin made the code sir’

‘Understood, the team needs to debrief but we need forensics, eta?’

‘Forensics on scene now, back up is on route, sir I think it would be wise for you to seek medical assistance now, the scene is secure, officers have completed a second sweep,’

‘I’m alright Devin’

‘No offence Greg but you’re really not,’ he meets his juniors eye, there’s nothing but sympathy and sadness there. Greg doesn’t know whether he can bring himself to be angry with that man.

‘Sir,’ It’s Sally this time, she’s crying again, ‘Sir, you were the closest to her, she looks up to you, you should be there when she wakes up, go on let them see you and take you to the hospital.’ Devin is waving his hands to attract the paramedics who’ve been left behind, two of them coming over at a jog,

‘You alright sir?’

‘This is D.I. Lestrade, he was helping P.C. Osborn and we think he’s in shock’ they start manoeuvring him towards the last ambulance but he shakes them off,

‘I’ll come to the hospital but one of my officers will drive me, Sally, Sally will drive me.’

‘Sir that’s not wise,’

‘I don’t care, Sally will drive me.’ Sally comes up behind him and once the Paramedics have given him a quick check where he’s stood she’s allowed to steer him towards the police cars. They ride in silence apart from Sally’s sniffing; he can’t bring himself to speak. 

He’s not sure how he ends up in the uncomfortable plastic chair, there’s a nurse waving a small light in his face and he’s been covered in some heavy knit blanket, they check his vitals while he tries to demand updates on his team, Sally returns with a cup of tea and news, the scene had been secured and handed over to the back up team, forensics were now on site, Franklin and the other officer on her team who were injured only experienced minor sprains and a broken wrist. They were already on route back to the station for debriefing, Greg wonders If he’s supposed to do it but before he can open his mouth Sally is informing him that the Superintendent is handling debriefing and that Greg is likely to placed on sick leave until they get him a Psych evaluation.  He doesn’t want that, he’s about to object but Sally shakes her head at him, if he makes a fuss Devin and Sally will have no choice but to inform those higher up of his near attack on the perpetrator.

‘The man, the one with the knife, do we know who he is?’

‘Yeah, he’s the Dr. James we’ve all been hearing about, we’ve not got his real name yet but we’re running his prints for any other aliases. He took Summers down with one blow but we’re thinking that was by surprise, Sammy must have seen him, hence the scream I guess.’  It’s as good a guess as any before they get the forensics report. Four men walk into the closed off hallway, this section of the hospital has been closed off for police and official personnel only, they’re wearing thick black overcoats, crisp white shirts and trousers with such precise creases that Greg thinks they must be uncomfortable. Sally notices them too, sitting back slightly in her chair and eyeing their movements, two move to the end of the corridor and stop, the other two stay near the doors to the ward bracketing the doorway. They don’t move. They don’t speak. They don’t even make eye contact with Greg or Sally. They just stand like guards. Sally’s face is slowly devolving into anger but Greg grasps her hand,

‘They’re likely undercover officers come to secure the location and the witnesses, you know this happens sometimes.’ He can tell she’s still bristling but she makes no more moves to confront the men.

They sit as a silent vigil, they’re joined eventually by Devin and Franklin, it seems wrong to have the higher ups of his team here when they just closed a raid but the proceedings will have been mostly handed over to the higher ups when they reported an officer down. They’ve always been a close team, the closest in Greg’s division really, Sally is practically his right hand in all the cases he undertakes but he’d trust his life to the other two as well.

He falls asleep at some point between dawn and full blown morning, the four men are still standing guard at either end of the hallway, he looks across to see Hannah Franklin and Peter Devin resting against each other, Hannah has her head on Peter’s shoulder, the embrace is almost intimate and Greg looks away to award them some privacy, they’d be wonderful together If they ever worked it out. Sally has her knees pulled up on the chair, half turned so she’s looking towards Greg with her head leaning against the wall. He looks at the wall clock and realises it’s been three hours since they arrived, Samantha had been rushed to emergency surgery but they hadn’t told them anything else at the time.  

He unfolds himself from the chair and the thick blanket, stretching is back and shoulders he thinks he feels a little better, warmer certainly and his brain is a little clearer, it feels a little less heavy on his shoulders than before his nap. He walks towards the nearest of the suited men and asks quietly;

‘Any news from the surgery?’

‘Uncertain sir, we are not in communication with the doctors regarding the case. We can find you one of the Doctors though,’

‘Uh sure’ the man he’s speaking to flicks his fingers towards the door and the man opposite nods; he exits without saying a word. ‘If you’re not keeping an eye on the case then why are you here?’

‘We are here to ensure security sir,’ Greg nods at this, he’d imagined they were here for such a reason, the security of the victims in this wing was paramount to the case the police were making, he smiles slightly at the man who nods his head in return. Greg moves back to his chair trying his best not to wake Sally, she looks peaceful like this, so different from the normal thunderous look she wears.

He must drop off again because he suddenly becomes aware of Sally shaking his leg lightly, there’s a doctor standing to the side of them closest to the door. Greg notes that both the guards are back in place, the doctor starts talking about the surgery, how the wound had run too deep and P.C. Osborn had lost too much blood; he’s apologising and saying they did everything they could. Saying he’s sorry for their loss and Greg wants to scream, scream that she was too young, scream that it wasn’t fair, scream at them to keep trying , but all he can do is stare. Sammy’s dead, she’s gone and suddenly Greg can’t seem to get enough air. Everyone’s crying again, Hannah is clinging to Peter, her hands wrapped in his shirt. He’s pulling Sally to him too, he can see her body shaking, knows she must be sobbing but all he can hear is white noise. His knees give out from under him and he hits the plastic chair hard on his way down. Two strong arms fit under his arms and he’s lifted back to standing, he feels himself shake but the arms only grip harder,

‘Sir would you like to leave?’ it’s the man in the overcoat again, he’s looking with concern at Greg like he’s the one mortally injured, not injured dead, Code Zero, Code Zero, it keeps running through his head again. He looks to his team again but they’re wrapped in each other, he can’t offer them comfort, not now.

He nods his head slightly and suddenly he’s moving, two members of the team are moving him towards the exit, he feels the hit of cold air on his face, smells the scent of cigarettes from where the hospital visitors sneak them next to the doors, then all he can feel and smell is leather, he’s in a car and it’s warmer here, he’s not sure if he blacks out or just can’t recall how he got there but he’s suddenly in a room. A woman he thinks he vaguely recognises is pushing him towards a large bed. The bed looks soft, God he wants to sleep, there’s so much he needs to do though, the woman is soothing him now, making him lie down, she’s untying his shoes and stroking his hair, he realises then that it’s her eyes he recognises. She’s elderly, looks to be in at least her seventies, but she’s strong and he feels boneless when she pushes him to lie against the pillows, he’s never known anything as soft as these pillows, they smell of cotton, fabric softener and something he can’t identify. It’s a lovely smell though, rich and woody, he rolls his face into it so he can smell it all the clearer. The woman comes back holding a glass pitcher of water, she pours him a glass and watches him inhale it before pouring him another and placing it and two small white pills in his hands,

‘What are they?’

‘They’ll help you sleep Mr Lestrade, don’t worry you’re with friends here.’ She’s got a soft face and when she sinks to sit next to him on the bed and clasp his hand he can’t help but cling to it, it’s an anchor to comfort and he doesn’t want her to leave.

‘Take the pills Gregory, nothing bad is going to happen here.’ He takes the pills.

The next time he wakes up he feels comfortable, his mind is slightly fuzzy around the edges as he drags himself back to conscious thought. The sky is slightly darker, overcast and he realises it’s very nearly six in the evening; he’s slept most of the day. He doesn’t remember how he got into bed but more importantly where he is, he’s about to go and investigate when he hears a tinny rattling noise coming from beside him, he looks to see his mobile shaking across the small cabinet.

‘Hello,’ his voice is croaky and he quickly drinks some of the water he finds next to his phone,

‘Oh thank God Greg are you okay?’ it’s Sally and she sounds stressed, there’s a noise in the background that he thinks might be a television,

‘Yeah, I am, I’m okay Sal. You?’

‘Yeah I’m ok, I was worried though and those men whisked you off and all the other ones would tell us was that you were going to a friend who would look after you. Where the hell are you? Do I need to come rescue you?’

‘Sally I’m fine, I have no idea where I am though.’

‘What!?’ she sounds panicked by this and Greg wonders if he should be, he remembers the woman, remembers something about her eyes making him trust her.

‘No Sally calm down, I’m fine, just disorientated,  everyone else ok?’ his thoughts turn to his team, they’d lost two of their own yesterday evening, ‘People been checking in?’

‘Yeah everyone’s been checking in, everyone is ok, just well you know, it’s pretty shit.’

‘Yeah, I know, I should get into the office at some point. What’s even happening?’

‘Arnav’s on it sir, don’t worry, call in but don’t go in. Rest up, we’ll need to debrief tomorrow. The higher ups want to know what happened but you’ve been put on medical leave for at least today sir.’

‘By who?’

‘I dunno but I have too, Han and Peter as well, they went home together a little while after you were whisked away. Dropped me off at home first, Mrs Heather my neighbour, the nice one with the cat, she’s looking after me, fuss and love and cats, what could be better.’

‘She’s a good one that Mrs Heather,’ the door creeks open and the woman is back. She’s smiling slightly at him and he once again recognises the eyes, ‘Sally I’ve got to go but call me if you need me or if anyone else does. I’ll check my messages too.’

‘Right you are Greg, take care of you. And bloody text me when you know where you are okay? I worry.’

‘Will do Sal.’ He hangs up and turns back to the woman to see she’s gone again. The doors been left open though so he figures he’s supposed to follow. The hallway he enters can only be described as grand, the wood is dark and the wall sconces glimmer slightly, everything about it screams wealth and Greg feels even more disorientated. He follows a staircase down a floor before hearing noise coming from a semi closed dooway, it’s a man’s voice, he recognises it at once even if it is speaking Russian.  

Mycroft Holmes stands behind a heavy mahogany desk, observing the grounds below. All Greg can see is his back but he knows it’s him, the late afternoon sun makes his red hair shine and its all Greg can do not to lean out and run his fingers through it.

Sensing his audience Mycroft turns, his eyes meet Greg’s and he suddenly realises why the eyes were so familiar, they were so similar to Mycroft’s one might think they were the same, except Greg couldn’t imagine anyone else’s eyes shining in quite the same way Mycroft’s did. The man doesn’t smile but points silently to one of the chairs by the fire Greg noticed upon entering the office. Mycroft starts shouting in Russian at whoever is at the other end of the phone.  

The leather is bound tightly to the stuffing of the chair, it’s so firm that If Greg presses down his hand leaves no imprint on it. It’s comfortable though, formal, not for relaxing in. Nothing about this room calls for someone to relax. He’s got to wonder how he ended up at Mycroft’s. Why would anyone bring him here? It was where he most wanted to be, his friend soothed him, this was true but no one else would know that. Mycroft barks a final thing at the phone before replacing it to its holder, he’s obviously breathing deeply and Greg thinks he might be trying to regain some form of composure. It seems odd to see Mycroft like this, the man is always so held together, Greg can only think of two exceptions to this rule and neither of them seems appropriate here. He wonders if he should get up or say something.

‘Are you alright Gregory?’ his voice is soft and he still won’t raise his head to meet Greg’s eye,

‘I’m alright Mycroft’ the man moves then, his hand hits the desk in front of him hard, the sound of the slap resonates around the room as Mycroft moves around his desk, Greg can’t drop his gaze as Mycroft stalks towards him. He seems to hesitate just in front of his chair, he bodily wavers, coming to a halt and taking a half step backwards but Greg can’t take it. He doesn’t want to think anymore.

***

Mycroft doesn’t know what to think when Gregory rises from the chair, he had thought better of his actions, his hand still stinging from the impact with the desk, he had been running on instinct, desperate to touch, kiss and claim but that was in no way appropriate. He had no indication Gregory would welcome it and the last thing he wanted to do was upset his love further.  

He had been to hell and back through the night, reports of a casualty and than a fatality coming out of Gregory’s raid on the Russian mobster referred to as many things but most notably to his team as Mr. Red, it was an aliases ,his real name was a common Russian name and the man had left it behind as he climbed the ranks of one of Russia’s most dangerous mobster families, he’d been in charge of a branch of Moriarty’s web, Mycroft had lost track of him somewhere in Bulgaria two months ago but his prints had alerted his team once they were scanned at New Scotland Yard. He had thought the worst, he had felt his heart break at the idea of losing another person he loved, and he did love this man, if he had not known it before, the pure relief that had nearly bought him to his knees when Anthea had called through that Gregory was not injured Would have been proof enough.

He had found him on CCTV then, watching closely as he stalked towards Mr. Red with his gun drawn, he had been screaming for Anthea to dispatch security teams before any member of the police team in the area had noticed Gregory’s approach. He could keep him out of jail but he doubted he would be able to save his job and Gregory loved his job.  

But now the man stood in front of him, the height different more pronounced than normal as the detective inspector was without his shoes.  

‘Mycroft’ Gregory’s voice was soft, more of an exhale which coasted across his lips gently, he parted them in response, he wanted to say something, explain his actions in some acceptable way, but he failed to think of anything before the man before him moved closer.

***

Greg moved, he gave Mycroft a chance to withdraw but the man seemed frozen in place. His lips were parted slightly and Greg rose onto his toes slightly to press their lips together. He kept his kiss soft, a brief brush of lips before sinking back so his feet were flat on the ground.

He sees the flash of panic run across Mycroft’s eyes and he thinks that maybe his risk hasn’t paid off, he was wrong to think this would be welcome. He opens his mouth to apologise, blame it on shock, blame it on anything, but Mycroft cups his face between his hands and brings their lips back together. It’s just as chaste as before, lips barely touching, Mycroft’s hands slip down his back and grasp his waist pulling him closer.

Greg feels a groan leave his lips and Mycroft inhales as if shocked. Greg pulls back slightly resting his arms around the taller mans shoulders. He clings tighter when Mycroft tucks his head between his shoulder and chin. The angle slightly off but all he cares about in the moment is getting as close as possible. He hears the light sniffs and feels a growing dampness on his collar, he clings all the tighter to the man who’s stolen his heart.

‘You cannot do that to me again, please Gregory, never again.’

Greg worries for a moment that he means the kiss, he’s about the drop his arms and make a speedy retreat when he feels Mycroft’s lips pressing insistently to his neck, the man is nuzzling him and his warm breath heating his skin and he reasons it would be unlikely that Mycroft would mean the kiss in these circumstances.  Instead of answering he runs his hands through the man's hair and presses kisses to his brow. He knows he should feel guilty, he’s a married man, but in reality he’s not felt married for some time and he hasn’t loved his wife for even longer.  This man has his heart and being close to him could never feel wrong.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See I promised it got a little better
> 
> *Goes in search of ice cream* 
> 
> MJ x


	12. Thursday Night is Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapters were divided into two because of their length, the first is John centric to second follows Greg. MJ.

John allowed his head to gently fall back against the bars of Mina’s crib, she’d fallen asleep ten minutes ago but experience had taught him that moving away too quickly would make her stir and having watched her fight sleep all day he really needed her to sleep now. He closed the copy of Peter Pan he’d been reading to her for the last thirty minutes before standing as slowly as possible, his knees had seized up slightly from being sat on the floor for so long but he waited to stretch until he was out of the room, he clicked the bee night light on as he pulled the door too lightly, his daughter hadn’t moved an inch and John sent up a silent prayer to anyone listening that she managed to sleep for a few hours. Nearly two years of navigating the stairs to the third floor of Baker Street had taught him how to move down them without making a noise, he reached the bottom and turned on the baby monitor he kept on the hallway table, the only noise coming from it was the soft strain of classical music and Mina’s light breaths. He’d spent numerous nights in the first week with it pressed to his ear straining to hear the noise of her breath, checking on her without running the risk of disturbing her sleep. That was before nights of three A.M. wake up calls and late morning naps, John couldn’t say which he preferred now, although his body was craving nights of uninterrupted sleep the idea of her having nightmares and being alone was worse, so he’d accept she would wake him up stupidly early and he would accept that he’d much rather smother her in love than have her be alone.

 John clutched the baby monitor a little harder when the doorbell to 221b sang through the flat,

‘Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up’ he muttered while waiting silently to hear any noises from Mina. None came, John was so thankful he almost forgot to scowl and Tammy when she flounced through his front door moments later brandishing a bag of what smelled like Chinese take away. Thursday night was steadily becoming John and Tammy movie and take out night a tradition which although young was providing John with something to look forward to again, his life had become more solitary while he was living with Sherlock, John had failed to realise the degree to which his life had revolved around the genius during those last few months of his life and now, with Mina, John had little opportunity to socialise with his former friendship circles, few of the rugby lads had children and his friends from the army seemed to find it difficult to relate to civilian life. Not to mention the fact none of them knew how to handle to dead housemate, best friend, potential criminal live bomb that was Sherlock, in life they’d been able to ignore his existence for the most part but in death they seemed to find it near impossible. John couldn’t say he found his life to be lacking without them but it had left him lonely.

Lonely enough that when three weeks ago Tammy had popped over to drop something off he’d ordered from the store and discovered she’d never seen any of the James Bond series he’d invited her to stay and watch the rest of the movie he’d been watching. The rest of the movie turned into a three movie marathon, Indian food and Tammy falling asleep flopped on the sofa, she’d woken up disorientated at four in the morning and wandered into John’s room thinking in her sleep fuelled haze that it was her room; the resulting shouts of shock from both Tammy and John had woken Mina and led to a rather awkward conversation with Mrs Hudson in the morning when she gave him a pointed look and told him he should keep it down in future.

He’d turned a deep shade of scarlet while explaining the story, John couldn’t explain why Mrs Hudson had seemed relieved when he explained his new friend was gay but he decided to assume it was just her desire for a peaceful nights rest rather than a judgment on his dating habits.

‘You know I’m pretty sure I told you to knock if you came over after seven’ Tammy silently raised her eyebrows at John before shaking the take out bag at him, he swiped at it while stifling a grin, Mina hadn’t woken up so he supposed he’d forgive his new friend her mistake.

‘You are in for a treat Watson.’ Tammy followed him removing the rainbow scarf she’d draped over her shoulders, the woman’s fashion choices always made him smile, she was rarely conservative with her colour choices and more often than not her clothes told some form of story. He’d noticed that while in her store her clothing never ventured far from a jeans, t-shirt, converse combination but on the occasions he’d seen her outside of work she’d surprised him, often times looking more like a children television presenter rather than a business owner in her late twenties. ‘Today for our viewing pleasure I have bought some classic British Sci-Fi which beautifully blends the 1920’s style, time travel and in honour of your set company for tomorrow some landed gentry. There’s a country house, hidden passageways and a ball.’  She hops onto the kitchen side before removing her jacket, the t-shirt she wears underneath carries a circular emblem with interweaving lines, circles and crescent shapes. John can’t tell where he’s seen the golden design before but it strikes him as familiar. 

‘I hate clowns.’ Tammy throws him a disparaging look as he dishes out food onto plates and tries to locate the chopsticks; they’d had a habit of collecting them from restaurants John remembers ending up with a draw full of both the flimsy and sturdier variety.  John had shoved them all into one draw after realising the things were winding up in the oddest places, the toothbrush holder for example, he pulls out a sleek black set he’d grown attached too and the polished pine one’s Tammy seemed to have settled on. The brilliantly red set Sherlock had always used sat in a closed box in the cupboard holding wineglasses, they were one of the rare gifts Mycroft had bought Sherlock over the years the man had seemed to rather like and as such John had decided to keep them.

Tammy swings her legs while humming a tune John once again recognises but can’t place, it pulls him back to his childhood but instead of questioning her he smiles and strolls, plates in hand, to the living room. Tammy bounces to the television ensuring the set up is complete before flopping on the sofa next to John, he’s not seen her this excited since he’d mentioned his teen obsession with Princess Leia, both the gold bikini and the badass attitude of the leading Star Wars lady.

Tammy retrieves her plate from the table; she took the time to inhale a spring roll before turning to John,

‘Which story did you tell her tonight then?’ She liked to start the night this way, they’d discuss Mina while the intro of whatever movie started and then fall into comfortable silence for the duration. He’d learnt early on that talking during the movies he watched with her was a sure fire way to have a plastic juice bottle thrown at your head, he missed the monologues of deduction Sherlock used to throw at programmes sometimes but for the majority he had to admit he preferred the companionable silence.

‘We’re still reading Peter Pan, I’m thinking of writing some of the passages on her bedroom walls, they look so plain at the moment.’

‘Why not just paint the walls, most of the furniture is a dark wood, yellow or blue might be nice.’ John nodded his head in acknowledgment, he’d considered it, Mrs Hudson had been happy to allow him free reign with any decorations he wanted but he was growing increasingly attached to the idea of the quotes,

‘I can’t explain why I like the quotes idea, it’s just that when I read it to her certain lines strike me as being so full of wonder, I want that for her.’ John wanted more than anything to fill his daughters world full of magic and light, Tammy smiles at him lightly, he’s been surprised by her ability to relate to his feelings when it came to Mina, when he’d asked about her family she’d explained she was an only child and didn’t hold any desire for her own. She was naturally nurturing but John appreciated that not everyone wanted to be a parent. He’d not been sure himself until Mina, he still found himself having to adapt on occasion but he felt that was most likely normal.

‘Which quotes do you like?’

‘Well there are three I can remember off hand; all the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.’ Tammy laughs lightly at this one, ‘You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting,’ That one made him think of Sherlock, he’d started staring in John’s dreams again but he was no longer the bloodied face on the pavement, now he shone brighter than he had in life, they ran through the streets of London, bounding over roof tops, laughing at crime scenes. The last quote however was his favourite,

‘When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.’ Mina’s laughter never failed to improve his move, it shone like a beacon though his grief had done since that first day, and John thought he had never known a more magical sound.

Familiar theme music fills the living room as the two friends fell into near silence, without looking at the screen John recognises it. He raises a single eyebrow at his new friend while the woman moves forward to capture the remote. He’d been a fan of Doctor Who growing up, the family friendly story lines being a hit for him and his mum, Harry had never liked them much, she’d stayed around for the story arcs with Ace but she’d preferred to mock John’s interest in them instead. They were a classic part of British culture though, there for few people in the country, who would fail to identify a Dalek or the famous Blue Police Box,

‘You know this isn’t a movie’ Tammy laughs while selecting the play option on the menu, John vaguely recognises the story arc title; Black Orchid. The familiar theme music pulls him in and John allows himself the luxury of curling up on the leather sofa to indulge what had once been his guilty pleasure, a secret love of Classic Doctor who hadn’t seemed like something that would go down well at university, he’d had to beg his mum to record them every Saturday so he could marathon them when he’d gone home on weekends. They’d started the revamped version while he’d been serving in the Army and he’d been surprised to learn there was less of a stigma to the show than he’d experienced while in his teens, he suspected that may have had more to do with Billie Piper being the companion than a particular love of time travel though.

The story line is easily engaging and watching Peter Davison dress as a Harlequin made him laugh till his sides hurt, Tammy was right when she’d said he was in for a treat, during the credits of the first episode John snuck upstairs to check on Mina, she’d turned In her sleep so she was facing the door, her blanket wrapped haphazardly around her limbs and her thumb rests lightly by her mouth as if she’d fallen asleep sucking it, he sits for a minute at the top of the stairs to watch her, he doesn’t trust himself to always know when she needs him, he’s found her before awake in her crib in tears but not making any sound. The first time this had happened he’d panicked and taken her to see Sarah at the clinic but she’d reassured him that Mina was in no way ill she was merely responding to her former trauma. Unsurprisingly this had made John feel no better and he’d only trusted Sarah’s advice so far before doing more research on his own. She’d explained that at the age Mina was she was unlikely to carry the trauma with her forever, as she grew and understood that she was now safe and that John wasn’t going to leave her she would calm down more. His research supported the idea that young children had incredible abilities to heal from trauma without lasting damage but John maintained a constant awareness for their surroundings and any potential triggers for her distress. He swore being a parent was making him more jumpy, jumpier than even the unacknowledged realities of PTSD had made him.  Mina seemed perfectly peaceful in her slumber so John risked moving downstairs again. He wanted to watch the conclusion of Black Orchid before she woke once more.

***

Three hours, more spring rolls than could ever be considered sensible and an illogical fortune cookie later John was pretty certain moving from the sofa was impossible, Mina had continued to sleep soundly and John could only hope she’d make It through the night. He was exhausted, every bone in his body felt heavy and he had to fight to keep his eyes from closing. He turned his head to find Tammy curled up on her side with her face pressed into the sofa cushions, she smiled lightly reflecting John’s own tiered expression back at him,

‘It’s not even eleven how can we possibly be this tiered?’ it was a miracle John could understand her through the Tammy’s slightly shaky yawn.

‘We’re getting old Tammy’

‘I’m not even thirty old man; watch yourself I could still take you.’ She moved to limply throw one of the Yoda pillows she’d bought Mina at him, John laughed.  It was easy to forget his anxiety about tomorrow when he was surrounded by the happy warmth of home, friendship and family. He was meeting Sherlock’s parents in the evening for dinner, they’d agreed that the first meeting should simply be adults, Mrs Hudson agreeing to watch Mina for the early portion of the evening, she’d had to do bed time but John imagined Mina would fight going down properly until he was home. It had been Mycroft’s opinion that they should meet without Mina so John would feel as comfortable as possible discussing and answering any of his parent’s questions regarding her emotional wellbeing, John knew he was correct but the idea of leaving Mina distressed him.

Tammy stood and stretched her arms above her head, ‘You’re coming in tomorrow morning right?’

‘Like we’d dare miss story day, what’s on the rota for tomorrow?’  He’d started taking Mina to White Rabbit’s story morning two weeks ago, she had little patience for sitting through a full story being told by someone other than John but it was giving her a chance to socialise in a small group and get a little better at being around strangers. Not only that but it gave John a regular reason to leave the house and attempt to build a network of acquaintances with children. Tammy had a tendency to dress up as a character from the story being read for the day, last week she’d been dressed as Robin Hood for the day, John had started to believe story day was simply an excuse for Tammy to dress up but he wouldn’t judge her for her small pleasures.

‘Well we’re doing the Wind in the Willows for the youngsters but I had a request for our Young Adults afternoon,’ John froze on his way to the kitchen, he’d been in the process of clearing the empty plates from the living room but this caught his full attention, he turned on the heels of his feet to face the sheepish looking woman by the sofa, he started shaking her head about to remind her he’d already said no to her crazy scheme when she dropped to the floor on her knees, he panicked slightly wondering for a few seconds what the cause of her collapse was before realising she’d clasped her hands together and was using her best ‘kicked puppy’ look to guilt him into it. He shook his head harshly before turning back to the kitchen,

‘John please, please, please, please, please!’ the litany of pleases continued as he placed the plates in the sink and started the water.  Story Day at White rabbit was divided into three sections, young children; between one and five, were seen in the morning, these stories tended to be classics, easily recognisable and ones parents were likely to have at home, this was mostly because of the attention span on the child, then there was ‘modern children’s classics’ for children between six and ten and then the final story of the say was Young Adults, suitable for eleven years and up, Young Adults happened to be the section John had been forced to cover the week before when Tammy’s normal performer Brian called up claiming he was too wasted to handle children, Tammy had exploded at the young man, firing him over the telephone before steadily breaking into a panic at not being able to create something out of thin air for the relatively large audience she’d been expecting, the local school had started sending the more  children in year seven who struggled with English to watch each week and Tammy proclaimed loudly that she felt physically sick at the idea of having to turn them away. They came each week to be inspired,

_‘This is the last time I hire a friend's brother's best mate to do anything John’_

_‘One could make the argument it wasn't wise to hire them in the first place,’_

_‘You’re not helping John!’_

He’d felt it necessary to volunteer before Tammy had some form of breakdown; she’d been so relieved she’d told him to tell any story he could find. He tried remembering the stories he’d loved when he was that age and decided on a mystery. A quick skim through White Rabbit mystery section turned up nothing John found realistic or engaging but he had supposed he was spoilt for mysteries what with being the best friend of the world only Consulting Detective, it was then that inspiration hit, if he couldn’t find a mystery to his tastes why not retell one he’d experienced himself. He’d spent the next forty minutes sketching out every detail he could remember from A Study in Pink, the first case he and Sherlock had worked together, the agreement was to read as much as would fit into forty five minutes and figured dropping straight in to the case would be best. He’d explained his idea to Tammy over a hasty lunch, where he introduced Mina too the magic of breadsticks, before his friend had exclaimed that it was brilliant but wasn’t he worried about exposure. He’d considered this and decided to alter their names and maybe the location, he’d tried to explain he didn’t imagine people would recognise the details as a lot had never been released in the papers. Tammy had been quiet for the rest of lunch as John tried to contemplate where to set his detective story, Cardiff, Bristol, Birmingham, Edinburgh, he knew them all with enough certainty to figure them as settings.

_‘John I have an idea,’_

_‘Okay, is it about a location cause I’m thinking Edinburgh’_

_‘No, no actually I think you should keep it in London. The idea is an odd one, bare with me for a minute ok. But don’t try figuring out a new location.’_

_‘Okay, we’ll stay here won’t we Mina, we’re going to be telling a story all about your Dad Sherlock today, but we’re going to have to call him something else.’_

_‘Okay, this is my idea’, Tammy thrust her Ipad in his face while he tried to feed Mina he yoghurt, she squawked in protest at being ignored in this way, which prompted Tammy to lift her out the high chair and entertain his daughter with a hand puppet they’d left on the counter between them, John had spent ten minutes staring at the screen and the information Tammy had brought up, information about the 1920’s, flapper girls, jazz clubs and a famous private eye that had dominated New York newspapers for ten years._

_‘How is this an idea? I don’t understand.’_

_‘Well what I’m suggesting is that instead of changing the location, you change the time,’ John had been about to protest that he knew little about the time period past the upsurge in freedom the population had experienced after the war but Tammy had raised a hand to stop him, she bounced  Mina on her hip while his daughter chewed her fist,_

_‘I know you don’t know about the time but in actuality the story you described wouldn’t need you too, you’d set it up location wise, London in the 1920’s a place of high hem lines, loose morals and despicable crime,’ she said the last bit in her narrator voice, ‘before introducing your hero, the dashing Private Eye William Baker who promised to bring Justice to a dangerous world, your section is about a chase and the chase would be the same, it’s over roof tops, they had roof tops in the 1920s!’  The imagery was so clear when she explained it that he couldn’t help agreeing. She’d helped him figure out the introduction and the rest of the time would be filled with his explanation of the case. He was careful to be non-graphic with any violence. He’d found the experience both thrilling and cathartic, sharing a story about Sherlock and having people, children especially respond so well to the man’s character, John couldn’t get Sherlock’s voice right for his speech but his audience laughed at the slight jokes the characters made and John found himself getting so lost in his own story that when Tammy had stepped in to explain it was the end of their time he’d been genuinely disappointed._

‘Come on Tammy I told you it was one time,’ she’d come to stand next to him at some point during his recollections, she’d lost the puppy face but he determined one was even worse in John’s opinion,

‘Hear me John Watson, you’d be letting those kids down, they loved your story, the school called and deliberately asked if you would be continuing the story this week because they’d love to send more kids the ones who came last week enjoyed it that much, please John, for the children’ it was a low blow and they both knew it,

‘Hear me Tamara Devereux, I did it as a favour, not doing it again,’ he could be just as stubborn as

‘Oh come of you loved it, you didn’t see your face, come on at least finish A Study in Pink, after that’s done it’s up to you but that one, come on, please,’ she clasped his arm tight enough that it might leave bruises,

‘Oh come on Tammy, you know why I can’t. Why are you making this awkward? I helped once, I don’t want people realising it’s about Sherlock, I don’t need the drama and you know I closed down my blog for a reason Tammy.’ He’d started to receive messages from the public of both support and anger from the public after Sherlock made the papers for the last time. He couldn’t risk that sort of reaction again, especially now he had Mina.

‘I don’t mean to make it awkward John, you were so good last week and you seemed so happy. I thought you enjoyed it,’ She takes a step back before straightening her jacket. A glance to the clock tells John it’s nearly eleven, both of them needing sleep before having conversations like this. Tired and cranky were not ideal circumstances to find yourself in when trying to talk reasonably.

‘I did enjoy it, I did and I do miss writing, but you know I can’t do it. Even if I want to,’ the stand in silence, neither of them making eye contact, John has his vision focused on the coffee pot while Tammy faces into the kitchen. If he’s honest with himself he’d love to keep telling the stories, sharing his memories of the adventures they’d shared but he felt like it was too much of a risk. He feels he press her lips lightly to his cheek, he’s teased her before that it’s the small amount of French in her that makes her kiss peoples cheeks when she says goodbye, Mrs Hudson in particular had been thrown by the overly familiar gesture. She’d exclaimed once Tammy had left that it was very liberal of her. John had felt free to laugh at this, he’d never had friends as physically demonstrative before but he found it to be no bad thing,

‘I’ll see you tomorrow John, promise me you’ll think about it.’ She smiles at him slightly and it hurts John that she looks sad, he hadn’t meant to upset her but he can’t see how doing what he wants isn’t selfish. 

‘Night Tammy, we’ll see you in the morning. You can help me stay calm about meeting Sherlock’s folks in the evening.’ He tries his winning smile but he knows something’s missing from it. He watches his new friend wander down Baker Street before forcing himself to bed. Best get as much sleep as he can, who knows what tomorrow would bring.


	13. Nothing To Feel Guilty For

Greg’s never considered himself to be a selfish man, but sitting in the window of Mycroft’s library he realises he could easily become one. The man had sequestered him away in this room, promising to bring back wine and that they’d talk but it had been an hour and Mycroft was yet to reappear. The situation Greg’s sudden appearance in his office had interrupted still needed to be solved and Greg thought it was possible Mycroft had also needed some distance to sort through whatever was happening between them.

Greg was still married, Mycroft seemed to be ruling the world from his desk and there was still the mystery of the silvery haired woman who’d been running around Mycroft’s house. In his warm embrace Greg had forgotten to ask about her identity but he was sure she was in some way related to Mycroft; her eyes had been too similar for them not to share DNA.  God but that kiss, he ran the tips of his fingers against his lips lightly, bringing back the feeling of pressure he’d experienced earlier. It’d been slow and light but he’d felt more emotion in it than he could ever remember experiencing in a kiss before. He felt they’d been working up to this moment for so long that the idea of waiting before progressing made him unhappy but he knew it’d be a disservice to both of them for this to move forwards before Greg was free of his wife. It’s not that he’d never had grounds for divorce, he had numerous, but he’d never found something to motivate him to take that final move and hire a lawyer. He was scared to be alone, he’d been married for fifteen years and he wasn’t sure he knew how to be without her anymore, his friends told him he should respect himself enough to leave her, his family said he deserved better and Sally liked to remind him on a regular basis that he would be a catch for anyone. He’d never hidden his bisexuality from anyone, he was comfortable with himself and what it meant to find both sexes attractive but he thought it might still shock some people if he ended up dating men, one particular man especially, he wanted to find Mycroft, wanted to know if he had something to look forward to once he signed those papers. Walking out of the library he entered the same hallway as before, the empty space was filled with the ticking of an old fashioned grandfather clock, the sound reminded Greg of a metronome he’d had while learning to play the piano with his grandfather, he’d always found the regular tick soothing.

Unlike last time there was no voice to follow but Greg let his feet carry him back towards where he was sure Mycroft’s office had been, the view from the window in the library had made him certain they were no longer in London and as well as finding Mycroft he wanted to know how long it would take him to get back to the office, having checked his phone he’d confirmed his teams wellbeing as well as noting the language his commanding officers had used in their emails. He wouldn’t be facing any disciplinary actions that much was clear and it appeared as if neither of his sergeants had reported the near miss involving him, his gun and a suspect. He felt the sharp pang of guilt and grief pierce his gut as he thought back to Samantha’s face, he’d tried to comfort her but he felt sure he could have done more for her, if only he’d not been shocked, he should have done more.

Pushing open the second door he comes to he finds himself once again staring at Mycroft Holmes' silhouette, the man turns towards him when the door squeaked at his entrance, there was a small smile on his face but it doesn't meet his eyes,

‘I apologise for leaving you alone Gregory, I just finished on the phone with the Prime Minister, he sends his condolences for your teams loss but praised all your actions as exemplary police work’ Greg doesn’t miss the slight sneer in his voice when he says the word exemplary. He feels his defences rise, he won’t have anyone bad mouthing his team, no matter how important that person may be to him, he’s about to state outright that his team IS exemplary when Mycroft continues, ‘the man wouldn’t be able to be sincere if it was his own family grieving, your team succeeded in bringing down a criminal group responsible for numerous global atrocities Gregory, don't mistake me we’re discussing mass rape, killings, drug trafficking, people trafficking, child enslavement at this point and all the man has to say is, he’s sorry for your loss but good job on sorting out my mess. The woman was in her twenties and her life was forfeit because the bastard refuses to let me do my job! He interfered with my investigation because he thought I was too close to the edge after Sherlock and now, because of his stupidity, a young girl is dead.’ Mycroft’s breathing heavily now, one hand pressed against the glass of the window as he leans his head down. Greg can hear the guilt in his tone that would match his own, he doesn’t see how a moment of this is Mycroft’s fault but he also doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, the group they were after were big, yes, but there had been no indication of anything bigger than London, nothing indicating what Mycroft is talking about. He takes strides to be on the same side of the desk as Mycroft, they’re both by the window now, the sun slowly setting over the lush green grounds beneath them,

‘Her name was Samantha and she was wonderful, she’ll be mourned by everyone who knew her and so many who didn’t. Yes she was too young to die, none of this is fair, we lost another officer as well and just because he was in his forties not twenties doesn’t mean there isn’t a family that will mourn his loss, it’s a terrible, terrible thing to have someone you care about, someone you’re responsible for die but none of this is your fault.’ He wants to comfort him, wants to physically reach out and touch him but they’re new to this, new to intimacy and this is such an odd way for anything to start, ‘it’s no one’s fault but the man who attacked her, I feel guilt because I was her commanding officer and I left the room trusting the clear was correct, I shouldn’t have taken that decision, even if I know that I could do it a hundred times over and still pick the same option, I feel guilt because when I was helping her and comforting her, I couldn’t stop the bleeding, but I know I followed the rules, I followed my training, I know I did everything I could do, logically, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the guilt of not being able to save her, the guilt of losing someone under my command. You always feel that guilt.’

Mycroft seems to fall on his chair with his exhale of breath,

‘The man you caught is a criminal known in most circles as Mr. Red,’ Greg snorts at the name, what is this some second rate detective show from the eighties, Mycroft spares his a short look as one corner of his mouth hints slightly at a smile, ‘Perhaps clichéd for a member of a Russian mob but stand assured he responsible for great acts of evil, you did the world a service Gregory, I could not be more sorry that two of your team members had to pay such a high price for a little more peace in the world.’ The words shouldn’t make him feel any better, nothing’s changed, but Mycroft’s voice does calm him, his mind feels more settled when he’s in the man’s presence. He moves to a crouch in front of Mycroft’s chair, his hand reaching out to capture the younger mans and bring it to his lips. Mycroft’s smile grows slightly but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. Mycroft shifts forwards in his seat to run strong fingers through his hair, the look he wares is full of what Greg identifies as adoration, he's flawed once again at this man's capacity to make him feel wanted,

‘I have waited for longer than I would care to admit to touch you like this,’ Mycroft’s voice is soft as he moves slightly to stroke through the short strands that curve around the shell of his ear. Greg feels a slight shiver move down his spine as he slips to his knees and runs the palm of his hand across Mycroft’s thigh, the younger mans legs part slightly to allow Greg closer access, he moves his hand up, caressing the man’s hips and the side of his ribs before stroking down the firm chest in front of him,

‘I’ve wanted to unwrap you from these suits more times than I’d care to admit,’ he hardly recognises the husky tone of his voice, he’s struggling to hold himself back from simply pouncing on the man, dragging the zipper of his trousers down with his teeth, using his hand, mouth, anything to bring the man in front of him to a wordless state of pleasure. He knows he shouldn’t, but at this moment, in this position it takes every morsel of his self control.  

He notes Mycroft scanning his face, his movements with those deeply coloured eyes and makes a conscious effort not to hide any of his feelings, allowing the man to deduce everything he wants to do to him in this moment, he’s at war with himself, wanting more than anything to simply say, fuck it and pull Mycroft over him, feel the heavy press of the man’s body on top of him, experience the biting kisses as well as the soft, give himself over to the fantasies he’s been repressing for years. But they’re both currently fuelled by guilt, grief and lust, he worries moving forward now would be something they’d come to regret later and he doesn’t want that. Greg knows he’s been holding himself back for years and if Mycroft’s words are true it’s been much the same for him, he’s been patient and he’ll be able to continue for as long as he needs to for this to be right. He chooses to stay on his knees but brings both his hands to hold Mycroft’s, it’s still a comfort but less inherently sexual.

‘We should probably talk about this,’ Greg mutters before returning his gaze to the man above him, Mycroft’s smile is broader now, he intertwines their fingers,

‘What part would you like to discuss Gregory,’ His name sounds more like a purr than anything, this man is the only one that still uses his full name and Greg reckons it shouldn’t sound as sensual as it does,

‘Well we haven’t really talked about any of it, about what we both want, about what any of it means, about if we want each other, I know my own feelings, I was just wanting to know yours as well’ he wants to kick himself for how pathetic that sounds to his ears, the slight edge of begging isn’t helped by his position between the man’s legs. If they’re going to talk it would most likely be best to have some distance between them when they do, he moves to walk away, disentangling his hands and standing as elegantly as possible. But he doesn’t get more than a step before he’s being manhandled against a wall, his back flush to the surface, he gasps as the younger man presses his body roughly against him, he can’t stop the groan as their erections push together,

‘If your question, D.I. Lestrade, is whether I want you,’ Mycroft’s voice comes out as a deep growl, he holds Greg’s wrists flat to the wall by his head, restraining him as he thrusts hard against him, Greg finds himself whimpering under the movements of Mycroft’s hips, ‘rest assured, I have never wanted another in the way I want you’ he feels hands running down his back, pulling him closer, their chest pressed together while Mycroft moves to bite his neck softly, the difference in pressure, the hard thrusts and soft mouth against him retches up his arousal,

‘God Myc please,’ he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, more, less, anything, it needs to move in one direction, he’s feels like he’s walking on a high wire unable to see either end of the rope, neither end drawing him more than the other,

‘Say it again Gregory,’ the pressure of his bites intensify and Greg moans, he can’t control his breathing, his breaths leaving him in steady pants as he holds his hands steady by his head. They rut together against the wall, he’s not done this since he was a teenager and he doesn’t remember it being this intense then. Mycroft’s hands are light on their path across his body, carefully avoiding any area likely to send him off, he coasts down his ribs, across his hips, down his spine, it’s a steady progression of movements which Greg feels are setting his skin on fire, he’s hot, the layers of their clothes keeping their body heat trapped, ‘Say it again’ Mycroft nips his jaw, hard,

‘Please’ his voice is soft, if they weren’t pressed together so tightly Greg is sure Mycroft wouldn’t hear him, but as it is he does. A hand dips into the open front of his trousers, gripping his penis through his cotton boxers, Greg moans in a combination of shock and lust; he missed Mycroft opening his trousers somewhere between the biting kisses and the dominant demands, he’d do anything in this moment to keep Mycroft pressed against him, his hand rubbing insistently through Greg’s boxers, he can’t help rocking his hips into the movement, feeling himself finally moving closer to orgasm. He wants to show Mycroft how much he wants him, how much his body is aching for his touch, has been since long before he woke up in the man’s home. He feels himself mumbling slightly into the man’s neck, telling him he’s close, just a little more and he’ll be coming. He thinks he might be begging now, a quiet litany of ‘please’, ‘Mycroft’ and ‘harder’  slipping past his lips  between breathy moans. His face is pressed into the younger mans neck, he’s surrounded by Mycroft’s scent, it’s woody, rich and intoxicating, he wants to move his head so he can capture the man’s lips but he’s utilising all of his energy to stay standing in this position.

Mycroft’s grip changes so it’s firmer, the movement faster. Greg shouts out as he orgasm’s, his mouth pressed against Mycroft’s chest, cheeks damp with tears, the sound may be muffled but his shaking isn’t. His whole body is fighting against staying upright, if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s arms wrapped around him he would have slipped down the wall to the floor by now, they stand together, bodies fully clothed yet intertwined.

He feels Mycroft press his lips to his cheek before moving off slightly, his lungs still fighting for oxygen as he comes down from what, had no right to be, one of the most intense orgasms of his life, he feels he should make some move to reciprocate but when he tries, moving his hand the short distance to the front of Mycroft’s trousers, his hand is stopped by another gently wrapped around his wrist,

‘No need for that Gregory,’ he starts to protest lightly but Mycroft merely presses another kiss to the corner of his lips, ‘Next time, I promise’ they exchange small smiles while Mycroft runs soft caresses down the right side of his face,  Greg knows the moment’s over but he’s reluctant to move, they’re in their own little bubble here, tucked away from the madness and pain of the rest of the world, he doesn’t know now why he was holding them back from this, he feels no shame, except of course that which comes with coming in your pants like a teenage lad.

‘I’ll hold you to that’ Greg grins in response to Mycroft’s, they’re stood here, Greg with his trousers mostly undone, shirt slightly stained with his release and Mycroft, one hand slightly damp from bringing Greg off, tie askew and hair dishevelled. Greg reckons that If he could look into a mirror at this moment he’d find his neck covered in tiny marks, he thinks he can feel them branding his skin, it’s a good thing no one else will be seeing him shirtless any time soon or there’d likely be questions, but there’s only one question Greg needs an answer to at this moment,

‘Mycroft, you don’t happen to know any good divorce lawyers do you?’ Mycroft’s answering laugh is hard; Greg feels it shaking him as the younger man embraces him once again. Running his hands through the auburn hair of the man in front of him Greg decides to stay in his little bubble a while longer, he never wants to take these feelings for granted.


	14. In The Sight of King Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people,
> 
> Please notice the slight change in tags. PTSD (and all its associated fun) is going to come into force quite a bit in this chapter. If that's not something you can handle this chapter isn't for you. Leave a comment if you've had to skip it but want a summary and i'm more than happy to do that. 
> 
> Stay happy, MJ X
> 
> Oh and Bold text means written correspondence, so letter, text, email you get the gist.

Somewhere near his sleeping area a phone was ringing, that annoying Nokia tone, it repeated over and over again. John cracks his eyes slightly only to find them forced closed by the blinding light.

‘Watson, you with us?’ he manages to croak in response to the question, his throat raw with thirst, it’s like the worst match day hangover he’s ever known, buzzing in his head, nausea, a dull throbbing all over his body, he starts to feel the heat of the room, the dull humidity in the air, he wills his arm to move to push the sweat dripped stands of hair off his face.  ‘Come on mate, need to get you up, can’t have you in here all day’ He feels strong hands taking his wrist, checking a pulse?  

‘ ‘ck off ‘ate ‘m ‘sleep’ he hears the same voice let out of low chuckle from above him,

‘Until you can form full sentences and complete your curse words I shan’t believe you Watson, now come on’ he feels a cool stream of liquid against his lips, the shock of the icy cold against his skin is both welcome and hideous, it forces his eyes open wider, still blinded by the sun initially, and his mouth fully open.

‘Easy, easy, we need to get that breathing under control,’ the liquid returns but this time presented  in a tin beaker rather than a single stream of liquid, the lip of the receptacle balances on his chapped bottom lip as it tips slightly, the fresh taste of water clearing his throat slightly of its sand paper feel, he tries his best not to suck it all down in one, he knows from his training it should be small sips initially, he looks around the tent to try and get his bearings, the material is a thick canvas, the light entering through the flaps in the ceiling serving as skylights,  he finally turns to his right, the smiling eyes of his superior officer welcoming him back to consciousness,

He has to clear his throat three times before he manages to ask any form of question, when he does Major Sholto explains the injury he’d sustained during the evening raids, nothing too extreme, mild concussion, he’d been knocked unconscious while treating civilian casualties in one of the villages, he remembered his team had been mobilized when the resistance movement had taken over the neighbouring village, they’d received word of major casualties in the area they were leaving and they’d been deployed to provide aid.

‘How’d I manage that sir?’ Sholto chuckles, his smile suggests a story John will find humiliating for years to come is to follow,

‘Well you entered the third house down having received the all clear and, from what I understand, you found a family of three, all young women, translator by your side, you approached them to offer aid and got hit over the head by the grandma neither of my highly trained officers, that’s you dickhead, noticed hiding behind the door,’ John closes his eyes as he groans, he remembers it vaguely, he’d taken his helmet off so he could make proper eye contact with the girls, they’d been very young and seemingly terrified, which John didn’t blame them for, of all the soldiers. He remembered having Abdul ask if any of them required help, he’d knelt to offer aid to the youngest at the front, he’d heard Abdul exclaim loudly from his right and he’d turned just before a sudden flash of pain on the top of his head had made him lose consciousness.  Sholto’s still laughing from his perch next to him, he’s dressed in the majority of his uniform, rank clearly shown, but everything about him screams off duty,

‘How long was I out?’

‘Only about thirty minutes initially but transport knocked you out of route back to base, you’ve been under for about’ he checks the wall clock from somewhere above Watson’s head, John moves his hand to gently probe his injury, the thick wad of bandage surrounding his head makes him feel ridiculous, the boys are going to have a riot with this one,

‘Well you’ve been under for three hours, nearly a record for you.’ John risks raising his middle finger to the man, the bark of laughter informs him he’s not crossed a line. They’re good friends, having already served four tours together, Sholto may be his commanding officer but he’s his friend as well, Brothers at arms.

‘Abdul alright?’

‘Yeah the lad managed to get you both out of there in one piece, although I must say I reckon Amanda got a great shot of you slung over his shoulder, whole team have been admiring your arse Watson.’ It’s John’s turn to laugh, he swings his legs to the side of the bed, sitting up in front of his mate he reaches out as if to slap the other mans shoulder, but his hand goes straight through, there’s a continuation of the noise now, it’s getting louder, more insistent, that mobile phone which had fallen to the back of his mind, he’s standing now, the beds in the room have gone and the mobile continues getting louder.

Sholto looks up from the chair he’s sitting in, his smile broad as John watches the skin on the left hand side of his face start to change, it rivets, bunches, discolours, scars, fire damage spreading so it touches from the corner of his eye to his jaw, John feels himself crying now, he’s shouting out trying to reach out to touch the brother he’d fought with, the ringing intensifies as the dream changes, his feet on solid ground, the surrounding buildings grey and tall, his face reflected back to him from the multitude of London windows, he sees the yellowing bricks of the building standing behind his reflection, the phone in his hand playing a different tune but blaring just as loud; he answers it,

‘John’ 

He feels the tears pouring down his face again, he knows this dream, recognises it for what it is, he wants to look away, to walk away but he never does, his feet carry him along the same path, he’s marching towards the building now, adrenaline pouring through his veins, he can never move fast enough, the voice keeps talking, he knows the script by now, he gives his responses just as he did in reality, but he keeps moving this time, keeps moving but getting no closer to the building. But it’s a dream, he knows it is, that means he can change the outcome, he can, he just has to try, he stops moving,  

‘Would it have changed anything?’ his voice is shaking now but not from exhaustion, he’s emotionally drained, he drops to his knees well before the bicycle is set to take him down in that critical moment, he’s changing the script,

‘Would it have changed anything Sherlock, if I’d told you?’ his friend’s breath catches, he can hear it over the phone. Raising his eyes to where the billowing coat’s outline shows his friend, frames him as if he’s a superhero, London’s dark Prince, sworn to protect its people, that’s how he’d seen him, always the hero, the arrogant, sometimes selfish, bastard of a superhero.

‘You can never know John, you could never save me,’ he holds the phone to his ear even after the conversation is over, he kneels as he watches his best friend, his soul mate, the man he’ll always love, it’s safe to admit that in his dreams, take a step off the building, the building where their story has started, he chose to end it there too.

John wakes with the ghost of a scream on his lips; it takes a minute for him to come back to his true surroundings, the decorations adorning the walls, sword, periodic table and the photographs; Mrs Hudson holding Mina by the living room window, Mina laughing at one of Tammy’s puppet shows, the crazy brunette hidden behind the sofa, Mina and himself curled into Sherlock’s chair in the living room reading The Princess Bride.

 His breathing is normalising but there’s still a ringing in his ears, it’s not a phone now though, it’s just the adrenaline he thinks. He focuses on his breathing but the bang from the front door being flung open brings his heart rate straight back up. There’s noise now, people in the corridor, their voices carrying and the multiple clicks of handgun safety’s being turned off.

Mina’s scream penetrates the near silence and he reacts on instinct; right hand drawing his gun from its place on the side table. Hitting the stairway before whoever has entered downstairs, thoughts of Mrs Hudson occur quickly but whoever it is seem focused on the stairs and entering 221b, his territory. He moves to the bottom of Mina’s stairs, gun raised, he’ll kill anyone who tries to harm her, she’s still screaming and he moves backwards up the stairs, he’s wary of tripping but they’re getting closer now, he turns and runs the final section of stairs flinging open the door to the nursery.

Mina’s lays on her belly fast asleep, her eyelids flicker in a dream but she’s not making a sound, John circles with his gun but there’s no one there, he can still hear her screaming but can see she isn’t, he can still hear the feet on the stairs but when he checks there’s no one there. 

He ends up with his back to the wall, gun clenched in his hand but he knows now that it wasn’t real, none of it and he hates himself, she would have been so scared to wake up and see him holding a gun, he looks across the dark room, illuminated only by the bee nightlight, Act II of Swan Lake plays over its small speaker, he can see a reflection of his face in the mirror of the dressing table Mycroft insisted she needed, the face that looks back is pale, the rings under its eyes dark. He can see sweat streaming down his face and as he watches he sees his right eye twitch, his shoulder’s screaming at him, the injury to his leg a less severe throbbing but it still makes him feel debilitated.

He tries to stand but his leg gives it, he muffles the cry of pain behind his fist. Mina shifts in her sleep, her whole arm moving out towards him, her tiny fist opening and closing, he comes back to the floor and pulls himself next to the crib, how can he possibly care for her when he feels this broken, he keeps willing himself to put down his gun but he just can’t, it’s the only thing protecting them and he has to protect them. He’s let so many other people in his life down, he’s lost so many people he loves and he can’t bare the idea of losing her too.

He needs to calm down but he doesn’t know how, he’s not had a night this bad since moving back to Baker Street; when he was living alone he had a system,  the only person to protect was himself, it made it easier, he’d sit with a kitchen knife next to his elbow and clean his gun. He’d take it apart one piece at a time, he’d clean every part before laying it out on the table in front of him, he’d put himself through drills while putting it back together, on nights when his hands shuck too much to complete them he’d find himself pressed into the corner, knife in hand while tears streamed down his face, his memories from the war shone through his nighttimes, memories of the people he’d lost, memories of the injuries he’d treated. Memories of the people he failed to save by being forced to come home; Sholto’s injuries were sustained after John’s discharge, he wondered sometimes if he could have done something if he’d been there, could have saved some of the lives of the boys in his unit that had been lost; each of their names sat on his conscious as if he’d been there to fail in person.  

He hears Mina stir behind him and he prays she doesn’t wake up, he wouldn’t be able to sooth her while holding the gun. He has to move, his leg doesn’t want to support him but he manages to bring himself to standing. He half falls forward as he tries to walk but catches himself on the door frame. He sees the emergency mobile Mycroft had stashed in every room of the house. It’s an old Nokia, one of those bricks you used to get when mobile phone technology was something new and exciting, the ones that look nearly indestructible. He grabs it up, the damn things on silent in the bedrooms but the idea is for them to call out not accept calls. He pulls the door to behind him before taking a seat on the top step, he stretches his leg as much as possible before it seizes.

He doesn’t have anyone to call, not really, his options were always limited. Ella, in all her therapist glory, used to suggest he call Harry on nights like this, he’d quickly explained why that would be unlikely, her alcohol issues made her more unstable than in their childhood but she’d never been a hundred percent with it then either, his mother, who would never understand something like this, something emotional and built out of guilt and love, she’d lacked the ability to feel those  when he’d been a child, how she would have developed them in the years since he’d escaped his shitty home town he didn’t know. Besides they wouldn’t be able to calm him, talk him through his dreams, no one ever has really, he had a girlfriend who tried after his first tour, the dreams weren’t as bad back then but he’d had them a few times while she’d stayed around. He’d shared, at her insistence, but things had been so different afterwards, he’d felt like he had revealed too much and she started to resent his attitude. He’d never met anyone who’d simply been able to calm him, except maybe Sherlock, he’d played for him when the dreams became too much, he’d managed to produce thrilling cases on the occasions when his limp came back, John sometimes wondered if he’d fabricated them just for him but of course he never had, but Sherlock was gone now and he didn’t have anyone else.  

The phone starts vibrating next to him, Mycroft’s name blazing on the illuminated screen, John thinks he might develop a complex if the man continues with his omnipotence,

‘Yeah’

‘Good morning John, is there a reason you’re currently sat on the stairs holding your gun?’ John’s never doubted Mycroft had cameras in their home, he hopes beyond anything that they’re not in, what was once Sherlock’s and now, his bedroom,

‘John,’ there’s a small pause and John wonders if this is going to be one of those long phone conversations where someone tells him he’s a nutter, maybe Mycroft will doubt his abilities to care for Mina, try to take her away, his hand tightens around his gun in response to the thought, ‘Captain Watson, I need you to tell me if Mina is alright?’ John pauses again, but he can answer these questions it’s no different from the army really,

‘Yes’

‘Alright good, second question, is there someone else in your home? Someone who shouldn’t be? A threat?’

That’s the question really, the paranoid voice in his subconscious chanting Intruder, Intruder, Intruder, but his conscious mind, the more rational side doesn’t believe there is, Mina’s room is clear at least and  his own was as well,

‘I don’t know’

‘Do you mean you cannot be certain?’

‘Yes’

‘Would you like me to have a member of the security detail check?’ Let another human being seeing him like this, witness his humiliation first hand, not just through whatever means Mycroft has, no he doesn’t want that. He turns his head to see the slither of his daughter’s feet through the mostly closed door, she’s kicked the blanket off at some point but her feet remain enclosed by the feet on her Pyjamas, it’s not just his safety anymore,

‘Yes,’ he says it quietly but he hears a small amount of tapping over the phone, ‘thank you.’

‘No need to thank me Captain,’ John cringes this time at the use of his former title, he doesn’t deserve it anymore. John pictures Mycroft reclining in a leather chair behind a large desk, it must be early in the morning, does the man never sleep, is that a Holmes family trait, god he hopes not, ‘John, your home contains a large portion of my family, protecting you is my duty,’ John snorts at him, typical of the man to put it down to duty but John understands him, they share this in common, valuing duty and honour above most other things.  

The sound of the front door opening causes him to raise his gun once more, he points it at the head of the stairs until he sees the profiles of the two agents, Anthea, the only member of Mycroft’s staff he knows on sight, spares him a look before entering the living room with her gun raised, a bald man John vaguely recognises enters behind her, he hears them move through the rooms quickly, the bald man entering Sherlock’s bedroom while Anthea climbs the stairs towards him, he’s lowered his gun so it would no longer place a kill shot but he refuses to loosen his hold on the weapon, he also refuses to move from his place in front of Mina’s door. Anthea stands seven steps beneath him and merely observes. The house is silent until the other agent reappears;

‘All clear Ma’am, no sign of forced entry.’ 

‘Thank you Samuel, please return to the car.’ Samuel inclines his head to the woman before doing the same to John with the addition of a small smile. Anthea waits until the front door has closed behind him before holding her hand out towards him,  he shrinks back from handing over his gun, she clicks her fingers and points to the other hand which is still clutching the phone,

‘I need to confirm the all clear with him before I can leave John,’ he realises the degree to which his hand is still shaking when he hands It over,

‘Sir all clear has been confirmed, no sign of foul play anywhere,’ there’s silence while Mycroft speaks on the other end, he notices Anthea giving him a more thorough once over, he feels quietly exposed but he knows she’s only doing her job, ‘Yes sir,’ more staring now, ‘I would advise it sir, I think he might have more luck,’ Anthea smiles slightly at him, ‘affirmative sir, I shall do that.’ she hands the brick of a phone back to him before taking a seat of the stairs in front of him. She faces away, looking towards the corridor instead of at him

‘Hi Mycroft’

‘John, Samuel and Anthea have completed a circuit of the lower levels, there’s no sign of forced entry on any of the doors and windows, I find It most likely that you were awoken by something else, although from the changes in your expression over the last thirty minutes I’m assuming you will have already reached your own conclusions.’ It’s true he already knew there was no one here, but having it confirmed brought his stress levels down to a more manageable level,

‘Yeah I agree, feel quite foolish right now honestly.’

‘Why on earth would you’ John snorts derisively before responding,

‘Come on Mycroft, I’ve just had two of your highly trained security team effectively checking for monsters, nightmares, ghouls or ghosties, I knew there was no one here but I couldn’t stop myself from panicking.’  Silence on the other end of the phone.

‘I do not know what to tell you John, you already know none of this is your fault. You survived a war, you have seen atrocities and experienced great pain in service to your country, all that before returning home and starting up with someone that enjoyed the darker side of London. You loved it too, the adrenaline and mystery, that much was obvious. Not to mention.’ Mycroft clears his throat here, ‘Not to mention my brothers actions, if after all of that you experience some distress then there is no shame in it, in fact it proves you are human.’ John offers no response, he knows all of these facts, it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes he gets so scared at night he wants to crawl under the bed in the same way he did as a child.

‘John, I don’t know what further advice I can give you, unfortunately I am similar to my brother in my understanding of emotional matters, either of us particularly well versed in the care of others.’

‘That seems to have changed for you as of late’ he’s observed it through their shared interactions and Mycroft’s open affection with Mina. He would never have guessed Mycroft would be the doting uncle he is but he supposes grief mellows everyone to a certain degree. 

‘Perhaps that is true, I have found myself more effected by sentiment since Mina has arrived,’ John thinks even admitting to this is a massive step for Mycroft, ‘John would you like me to cancel the dinner this evening, I assure you everyone would understand if  didn’t want to leave Mina.’ It was tempting, he’d already been nervous about leaving her alone with Mrs Hudson but he wanted Mina to have a relationship with at least one set of her grandparents, he doubted his mother would be enthusiastic once he informed her, as such he’d been avoiding the task for reasons he wouldn’t want to raise with Mycroft, not only that but John admitted to a degree of fascination in relation to the pair, the few conversations Sherlock had shared with John around the subject had created a mixed image, John wanted to know the reality of their personalities.

‘No, no you don’t need to cancel,’ John finally managed to put his gun down, he kept it close to his thigh but he knew the majority of his anxiety had ended, ‘Her security team will be around right? They won’t let anyone enter the house.’

‘Of course, they wouldn’t allow that anyway but they’ll be on a heightened alert while you’re away from home. John I’m going to leave you to rest, or if that proves impossible, a restful morning. I shall see you at seven; a car will arrive to collect you. The code for today is ‘Orchid’ my father’s idea I assure you.’  John chuckles lightly, Mycroft’s tone has dipped into one he’s all too familiar with, it’s similar to the one Sherlock would use when discussing Mycroft’s involvement in cases.

‘I’ll try Mycroft’ their conversation ends here, John quietly thanks Anthea for her help so early in the morning but the only response he gets is a slight nod. Her features are kind however and he doesn’t come away from the morning’s drama with quite the same level of self loathing he would expect.  He’s uncertain how to spend his morning now; he knows he won’t return to bed, fear of another nightmare would keep him awake if he tried, but he wants to do something useful or constructive. He finds sitting with his own thoughts so soon after an attack of this kind deeply unhelpful but for once the house is clean and organised, the laundry has been done and even Mina’s toys have been organised in the toy chest they’ve taken to keeping in the living room.

In the past these were the moments he’d fill with his blog, he honestly misses the writing, reliving the thrill of his and Sherlock’s adventures seemed to extend their longevity in his mind, even skimming the documents list on his laptop he realises three quarters of those listed are his notes about certain cases or adventures. A good number of these had never made it onto the blog for one reason or another, Mycroft had interrupted on a few occasions and demanded her not publish for national security.

He thinks back to his earlier conversation with Tammy, he could share these stories, modified enough to mask their true characters, without fear of recognition, it was tempting. The writing, planning and performance of their adventures had brought him a strong feeling of contentment and one he would be eager to replicate if the threat to himself and Mina’s privacy could be removed. He quickly sent off an email to Mycroft explaining his problem thinking that If anyone could help with security concerns it would be the elder Holmes brother.  He wasn’t expecting a reply until a more reasonable time but when he returned from his shower and dressing one was waiting for him;

**John,**

**I can understand your concerns but it would be my opinion that the risk is minimal, both to yourself and Mina. You explained that you would concealing the identities of those involved, and I would urge you to do so, however I see no valid reason for you not to pursue this.  If any issues were to arise I would be aware and could advise you further at that time.**

**I feel I should also warn you, in this vain, that security do attend the events in question, both for Mina and yourself, I hope this will not cause you undue stress, if you have any further concerns feel free to continue this correspondence, someone will always be able to access them and if it is not me I shall always be informed at the earliest opportunity.**

**Enjoy your writing Dr. Watson, Sherlock’s and my parents are eager to meet you, they’ll enjoy hearing about this venture of yours, my mother ever the romantic soul.**

**Sincerely,**

**MH**

***

Six hours later John, Mina and Mrs Hudson walk through the front door of White Rabbit, the front of the store was reorganised on Fridays to provide enough room for the audience of regulars Tammy had each week, soft cushion sat on the large semi circle carpet near the front specifically for the younger children. Age appropriate toys were always kept nearby in the hopes of keeping those children that got bored of the story entertained and quiet.

‘JOHN!’ a large crash accompanied Tammy’s greeting, the noise came from a story above where John knew the woman kept the extra stock and her assortment of grown up fancy dress options, the disorder the space was infested with had done a number on his self control the first time he’d helped her move stock so he’d avoided returning for his own stress levels. A second crash had him handing his wide eyed daughter across to Mrs Hudson and climbing the spiral stair case;

‘Tammy what on earth are you doing?’ John could see her legs from the calf to her foot sticking out of a large pile of outfits, her legs shimmied as the exited the heap brandishing what looked to be a stuffed horses head on a stick.

‘John there you are, I can’t find my crown have you seen it,’ she was dressed in brown leggings, riding boots and a long sleeved, loose fitting cream top.  Over the entire outfit suggest her theme was going to be historical this Friday but he couldn’t decipher which story or character she would be playing. He hoped he didn’t have to talk her out of a rendition of the latest Game of Thrones book, he couldn’t imagine that sitting well with the parents that attended along with their children,

‘I’ve not seen any crowns I’m afraid, which one do you need?’

‘Well it’s gold and crown shaped’ John raises an eyebrow at her, when she becomes flustered she’s often short with John or her customers, one of the mums last week at blushingly asked for her phone number only to be met with Tammy’s built in defence mechanism. She looks mildly ashamed and John thinks the practice he’s been putting in to develop a Dad face are paying off. ‘Sorry John, I just want to finish my costume and I can’t find anything.’ Her facial expression suggests this comes as a shock to her which John finds deeply amusing,

‘Well I can see no crown, who are you supposed to be anyway? It looks pretty generic right now’ he indicates the ensemble she’s wearing, Tammy whips up a long piece of red material and what look like a vest top, she turns her back on John while pulling the vest over her head and securing the longer material so it hangs down her back similar, John thinks, to a superhero cape.  When she turns around again he sees that the vest is embossed with a blue shield adorned with three golden crowns in a line down the centre.

‘King Arthur? Wow I’m impressed’

‘Well if I can’t find the crown I’ll merely be a knight but that’s not as good! Oh and I was thinking we could dress Mina up as Guinevere, I have a cute princess dress somewhere.’ As much as John had been avoiding gendered options for Mina he had to admit she did exceedingly cute on the occasions he allowed Tammy to dress her in the princess outfits she seemed fond of for the little girl. ‘Where is my favourite little one anyway? Did you leave her in her pram or something?’

‘What, no of course not, Mrs Hudson is here,’

‘Mrs Hudson is here! Mrs Hudson!’ John plasters himself against the staircases banister in order to avoid getting run over by the younger woman. Tammy had been taken with Mrs Hudson immediately, John supposed the woman had that appeal for slightly lost souls, which he felt both him and Tammy were; he saw Mrs Hudson pull her into a one armed hug a broad smile on her face.

‘Well hello dear, what a lot of noise you were making, did you lose something again?’  Tammy waves her hand as if to bat away the loss, clearly the surprise appearance of John’s land lady and everyone’s surrogate mother was enough to distract from a missing crown. He descends the stairs just as Tammy is helping move the pushchair and bags into the back room, Mina appears bemused by everyone’s early morning excitement from her perch on Mrs Hudson’s hip, 

‘Mrs Hudson this is a surprise, did you just come in to say hello?’

‘Well no actually love, I’m here to watch Mina through Story time, we’re going to have fun aren’t we little love.’ She tickles his daughters tummy lightly to elicit her tinkling laugh, she’s always louder when she’s surrounded by people she knows and John supposes the room now consists of half her regular social circle, perhaps he does need to get her out into the world a bit more, making friends never hurt,

‘Oh why? John, are you going somewhere?’  Mrs Hudson smiles over at him from behind Tammy’s back, she’d volunteered to come this morning when John had explained his early morning typing to her. She’d seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of him doing something like this, explaining that it was nice to see him doing something for himself for once, he’d been so tied up in becoming a Dad he’d stopped most of his favourite activities.  He knew she was right, it wasn’t that he in anyway resented fatherhood but he did miss having the time to devote to the few past times he did have, perhaps writing was something he’d be able to engage with again, now he had a purpose.

‘No I’m not, but I will be busy,’ she seems even more puzzled by his declaration and when he accompanies it a few seconds later by handing her a manila folder  she clasps it gently,  ‘Open it’ .

She does so with a gasp, inside are three typed up outlines for stories based on his cases with Sherlock and a complete copy of A Study in Pink, rewritten in his 1920’s universe. He’d found it easier than he expected to get lost in a fictional world and the period research he needed to do for the case rewrite.  ‘Are you serious right now?’ John nods his head while Tammy breaks out in a happy dance. He catches her as she flings herself at him, she’s an awkward height for this type of hug bug he appreciates the sentiment.

Mrs Hudson is laughing lightly from behind them, while Tammy breaks back into the folder, ‘So you’ll do the rest of this one? Oh you renamed it? A Study in Scarlet? Oh because of her lipstick and dress, nice nice, Oh Mina isn’t your Daddy clever?’ everyone freezes, John’s certain he just heard another voice in the room, he thinks he recognises it but he’s not sure why.

Mrs Hudson speaks first, ‘Mina sweetheart, did you just say something?’ John thinks this is ridiculous, his daughter doesn’t speak; she’s shown no interest in forming words, noises they’ve managed but not words.

‘Mina honey who’s this?’ Tammy is pointing at John now ‘Who’s this sweetie?’ the three of them watch her like a hawk while she returns to sucking her fingers,

‘It wasn’t a word everyone, probably just a noise. I’ve got a teething ring for her Mrs Hudson let me fetch it.’ He turns his back on the group, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t allowed himself a minute to hope it had been her first word, it had sounded suspiciously like ‘Dada’ but it didn’t matter she’d speak when she was ready to.

He returned from the back with her bumble bee teething ring, upon seeing him his daughter dropped the fingers from her mouth and smiled broadly, he watched her lips move and heard the word more clearly this time,

‘Dada’

John felt himself freeze, there was no denying it and he saw Mrs Hudson’s look of shocked joy, Tammy jumping up and down grinning madly but all John could focus on was his little girl. He felt tears start to form in his eyes as he rushed forward, pulling her free of Mrs Hudson’s arms he covered her head and face in little kisses before stopping to cry lightly into her curls. He’d been suppressing his worry for the whole time she’d been with him, worried she’d never want to talk and he might never be able to understand her.  He started to take more notice of his surroundings again, he pulled his head up to grin down at his daughter, clearly unaware of the momentous occasion she’d just been central to creating Mina was stretching to reach the bumble bee ring he is holding in his hand. Using the hand to wipe his eyes he hands over the toy, she proceeds to chew it with glee and John’s not sure if the glee in his laugh is from her current action or the incredible step she’s just taken.

‘You’re so wonderful, my beautiful Mina, so smart, Daddy’s so proud of you baby, God, my little dove,’ he whispers these to her and she pats his cheek in response. She’s always so happy when they engage like this, John hopes she always loves cuddles this much because he can’t imagine a time when he won’t want to keep her close.

He turns to see the other two important women in his life, Tammy is crying softly on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder but they’re both smiling broadly. He kisses his daughters hair as he thinks about how lucky he is, this morning he’d felt like he was losing his mind to his past but now, holding his daughter in his arms he’s never felt more blessed, every day with her pushes the ghosts of his past a little further away,  

He leans close again, his words just for Mina;

‘Your father would have been so proud of you baby, we both love you so much’ he knows it’s true, whatever comes after this life, wherever Sherlock is, he’d be so proud today and he also knows he’d have been as besotted with their daughter as he is every day.

***

Light footfalls pass through the snows of the Siberian woods. A thin figure moves unseen through the shadows as if made of the nights air itself. It stops for a moment between two tall trees to catch its breath, the small clouds of white proving the figure to be a mortal man and one that is running as if the figure of death were chasing him.


	15. The Dinner - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to apologise for this update taking so long, it wasn't meant to. I hit a serious writers block and i'm doing this without a beta which means I felt a little alone with it. We've also just had Mother's day in the UK which is a quietly frantic time in my family.
> 
> The chapter is also a complete beast, lots of background for relevant characters and some brand new people to meet, I hope you all love Siger as much as I do. I've divided it into two parts and the second half will be up later this week, in the next few days hopefully. I'm including a link to a twitter i've set up for my writing at the bottom, if there's ever going to be a delay in me posting i'll mention it there. Feel free to come say hi :)

The most ridiculous thing was John only owned three ties. He owned three plain, very workable ties, any of which would go with the plain white shirt he was wearing and yet here he stood, in front of Mycroft’s front door, obsessing about the colour of his tie. Light blue with a silver thread, Mrs Hudson had told him it brought out the colour of his eyes, It was too late to change it in any case, he was already here and leaving to change ones tie would most likely not give a positive impression to the people he was desperate to impress.

Where the anxiety to be impressive came from John wasn’t certain, he supposed he wanted them to believe Mina was in the best of hands and appearing confident was part of that but, if he was honest with himself, he also just wanted them to like him. Sherlock may never have spoken about them in John’s presence but they were his parents and John was his, well he didn’t really know what he’d been to Sherlock but certainly, best friend would cover the relationship.

He just needed to reach out and knock on the door, he’d bought a bottle of wine, something nice the guy in the specialist wine store had recommended, suitable for impressing people who probably had their own wine cellars. John hadn’t recognised the name but judging by the hefty price tag it should be a good one.

The crunch of gravel beneath heels gave him a slight warning before the glossy haired brunette appeared beside him, her blackberry still held in front of her face Anthea cast him a side glance before smirking slightly,

‘Are you to ring the doorbell Doctor Watson, or should I?’ It was such a rarity to hear the woman speak that even this most simple question caught him off guard, before he had time to gather the courage he needed to reach for the doorbell, she leaned forward and pressed the pearlescent button, ‘Ready or not John, here they come.’  She cast him the same smile before sauntering through the opening doorway.

The door’s opened by another tall brunette, she’s just as young and elegantly dressed as Anthea but there’s something slightly more approachable about her, perhaps it’s her open smile or the fact she welcomes him by use of his first name rather than title, but whatever it is about her she makes him feel slightly less out of sorts. Her smile is genial as she takes his coat, Anthea’s drifted off somewhere down the corridor to the right and John’s hoping that means he wasn’t supposed to follow her,

‘John Mr Holmes is waiting in his study for your arrival, if you’ll follow me,’ The other brunette is still smiling at him and John wonders vaguely if the hair colour forms some part of a Mycroft employee uniform,

‘Sure, lead the way,’ he indicates for her to walk in front of him which she does after executing a perfect about-turn, the precision of her movements speaks of some military training and he thinks there’s a serious chance that everyone of Mycroft’s employees could kill someone with minimal effort of their part, best to stay cordial he decides, ‘Sorry I didn’t catch your name,’

The brunette smiles brightly at him over her shoulder, John thinks under the right circumstances he may once have tried flirting with her, the idea doesn’t appeal to him presently however,

‘Call me Holly’

He’s reminded of his first conversation with Anthea, ‘Is that your real name?’

The woman’s laughter is all the response he gets before they’re stopping in front of a dark wooden door, she knocks once before opening it to usher him inside. The room’s dim, the only light coming from a banked fire and a the desk lamp Mycroft is seemingly working by, stacks of paper work litter the surface in front of him but he looks up upon their entrance and aims a small but genuine smile towards John,

‘John I thought you might sit and have a drink with me before my parents descend on us, they’re eager to meet you obviously.’ He turns now to the woman, ‘Thank you Holly, would you instruct my mother we will be ready to dine in forty five minutes’ she inclines her head slightly before whisking out of the room, ‘What can I get you John?’  Mycroft moves towards a wooden cabinet leaning against the solid wall to John’s left, the right hand wall is made out of French windows, two open doors lead to an impressive yellow stone veranda,

‘I guess something simple, Gin and Tonic if you have it. Oh and I bought wine, I wasn’t sure what was being made for dinner but this one was recommended to me.’ He hands over the bottle and watched Mycroft appraise it with a small smile. He accepts the tall glass before following his host through the glass doors outside. The evening is cool but not unpleasant, John’s glad to see the seating area also has a heater though, November isn’t the month he’d generally hold anything outdoors, but when Mycroft digs a packet of cigarettes from a pocket inside his suit jacket John realises it’s not necessarily for comfort that they’re out here, they take sides on opposite edges of a square glass table that forms the centre of a seating area they reach.

‘I hope me indulging this little habit of mine doesn’t offend you John, it has proved to be a very taxing few days.’ The closer he looks at Mycroft the more he notices his usually perfect appearance is slightly off, nothing too ostentatious but he’s certainly not looking his normal pristine self,  to John it looks like a classic case of exhaustion but he imagines exhaustion is a default setting for men in Mycroft’s position.

‘You want to talk about it?’ Mycroft looks amused at his offer, he supposes they’ve never really been close but over the past month the man’s been in his home most days and they’ve spoken on the telephone at least once a day, granted those conversations all centred around Mina but he’s grown to care about Mycroft somewhat, and he’s a natural caregiver so offering support has always come naturally.

Mycroft looks out over the garden, it’s when John observes him in profile that he sees the family resemblance strongest, ‘There is a great deal I simply cannot talk about and even more that I think you would find distressing to know.’ John can see the truth in this; he doesn’t have any level of security clearance anymore.

‘So there’s none of it I could help with, former soldier and doctor, long term flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. That’s got to qualify me for something.’ John finds it amusing watching Mycroft smoke, unlike Sherlock who relished every drag Mycroft seems to find them distasteful, John’s always had him pegged as being a stress smoker unlike Sherlock.

‘It surely qualifies you for a great deal John, but alas on this occasion I will be forced to turn down your kind offer.’

‘As long as you know it’s there,’ a change of topic seems to be in order, ‘you’ve got a beautiful home Mycroft.’ The grounds John can see in the limited light seem to stretch outwards in all directions, it’s more extensive than it seems from the front, high trees stand sentinel on all the three sides not occupied by the impressive house.

‘It’s been in the family for generations, my father remembers his Grandfather owning it while he worked in London, he used to love visiting it in his youth, unlike his father who preferred the Manor in Yorkshire, oh and as way of warning, my mother is intending on insisting you visit the Manor at some point over Christmas, for Mina’s sake, naturally.’ John makes a small noise of acknowledgment at this and he can tell by Mycroft’s amused expression that the man has deduced his lack of verbal response correctly, he’s not certain taking Mina on such a long journey would be considered a wise idea, she thrives most in the spaces she knows well, perhaps they could reach a compromise on a Christmas visit somewhere nearer home.

‘My mother is a very singular human being John, very much like Sherlock you understand; she has been blessed with a high intellect, a mostly scientific brain and unfortunately the same severe lack of tact my brother often displayed. I say this not to put you on your guard you understand, my mother in no way means to be cruel, she just fails to see how her words can be understood in ways other than those she means to relay.’  The two men drain what is left in their glasses, Mycroft drawing the final mouthful of smoke from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the heavy set ashtray in the centre of the table, the crystal reminds him of the one Sherlock lifted from the palace.

‘What about your father, if your mother is like Sherlock is your father like you?’ When Mycroft fails to answer immediately John turns to face him once more, his attention had been caught by the beautifully manicured flower beds that covered the right side of Mycroft garden, he’d been picturing Mina getting lost in the high blooms while he chased her, he wondered not for the first time this evening when he had become so comfortable with Mycroft that the idea of spending social time with him here seemed normal and if not guaranteed than at least something to seek out.

‘My father is not like me no, nor is he like Sherlock.’ Mycroft tilts his empty glass so it catches the artificial glow coming from the solar powered garden lights lining the veranda’s wall behind him, ‘my father is something rare in our family, you see he is kind, very naturally kind, he is a warm and loving human being who is completely devoted to his family, always has been. He never failed to be nurturing for either of his sons, we were never put in a position to doubt his affection and high regard for us. He can be a quiet man, quite the opposite of my mother; he contemplates his sentiments and statements thoroughly before stating them, which means he sometimes appears aloof. Nothing could be further from the truth however,’

 John’s a little shocked, he would never have pegged Sherlock’s father to be abusive, but the idea of someone being so openly affectionate to Sherlock, who balked merely at the hint of care, the picture doesn’t sit right,

‘I fear you may have been made to think of our parents as something abnormal or perhaps neglectful, I will not blame you for that and certainly my mother is occasionally challenging but in the case of my father, he has always been a most attentive parent, both for myself and Sherlock, they spoke every week on the phone you know?’

John’s perturbed,  Sherlock had never mentioned having to take a call and John never overheard him having long conversations over the phone with anyone although he supposed they were hardly together every minute of every day but it still surprises him that it never came up. He holds nothing against Sherlock, he never discussed his family in any great depth either, not that there would be much to talk about on his side. He tries to hold back the slither of jealousy he feels for the family Mycroft is describing, he had never known his father well, the old man left before John had a chance to know him properly and his mother, the less John thought about her the better, she was still alive and still someone John had to deal with from time to time, he couldn’t think of much he was dreading more than the necessity of informing her about Mina, except perhaps dealing with Harry.

Mycroft raises his face to acknowledge the person joining them through the French doors, Anthea comes forwards holding out her tablet for Mycroft to see, he takes it off her before sighing deeply.  He nods once in response before the brunette spins and returns to Mycroft’s, whatever information the tablet holds it’s clearly not good news, John holds his curiosity back, forcing himself to keep his eyes fixed on the garden over his drinking companions shoulder rather than the illuminated screen the man is staring at,

‘John I fear I will have to be unthinkably rude and make a phone call, it appears we may as well have sent a team of monkeys to do the jobs of this particular branch of Britain’s Security Services, and I say that only after judging by the mess they’ve made,’ Mycroft closes the tablets cover before throwing it onto the table. John’s quietly glad they’ve stopped pretending Mycroft only occupies a minor position in the British government, it makes conversations so much easier without veiled attempts at deception.

‘Well I suppose they did send Monkey’s into space so we could do worse.’ His attempt at humour leads to Mycroft’s patented “you mere mortals look” but John’s started seeing it as some form of thinly veiled affection so he doesn’t take offence at its appearance.  

‘Indeed, shall I show you to the library or are you happy out here for the time being?’

John shrugs, ‘I’m happy here, it’s not so cold.’

‘Excellent feel free to explore the grounds if you’d like,’ once Mycroft’s office door is closed behind him, John decides to go forwards across the paved veranda and perhaps follow the path by the edge of the garden’s border.  

There’s a faint golden glow between a group of trees forming the back wall of the garden and John tries to ignore the little voice in the back of his head, which sounds suspiciously like Sherlock, telling him to go and investigate. Instead he checks his phone, he left Mrs Hudson with specific instructions to contact him every hour with an update, he’d spent two days explaining text messaging to her before she’d simply told him to leave her be to have a go herself.  He decides to ring, just to check in, make sure Mina had been ok with someone else doing her bath time and that she wasn’t missing him too much. She’d been slightly distressed when he’d left earlier but by some miracle she hadn’t started crying. John had a specific weakness for her tears; he refused to ignore them and tended to go overboard with attention for a few hours afterwards.

He lifted the phone to his ear and waited for the connection, ‘Hello, Mrs Hudson’,

‘John dear, is that you? I can’t hear much over this phone.’ Mrs Hudson is yelling slightly on the other end,

‘Yes Mrs Hudson it’s me, I just thought I’d call and check in.’

‘Dear, that wasn’t necessary, Mina’s been an absolutely dream, she’s sleeping already, can you imagine.’

John couldn’t imagine, it was only seven thirty, Mina’s doesn’t normally go down for another half an hour and it’s normally a complete battle once she knows he’s going to leave. Why would she already be asleep? Maybe she was unwell and just like that John could feel himself start to panic, he knew he shouldn’t have left her, ‘Mrs Hudson it’s too early for her to be asleep and she doesn’t go down this quickly. Did she have her bath and her book, she likes to go to sleep to a story or she doesn’t sleep well.’

Mrs Hudson has the patience of a saint, this was well documented and evidenced through years of loyal friendship to the worlds only consulting detective but she wasn’t very good at following instructions, John had known this, so he’d left her a list, a typed list, with specific times for each activity, there was no way Mina should be asleep by now, drinking her milk normally took thirty minutes, she liked to cuddle in his chair while he sang to her, then when she was starting to drift off he carried her upstairs and they read Peter Pan while rocking for a good forty minutes, he’d left just after bath time, snuck out in the middle when Mina had been distracted enough by the bubbles only to frown at him being absent,

‘John she’s fine, I made her milk, we had a little cuddle while she drank but she only got half way through the beaker before she was falling asleep, so I took her upstairs and read her that nice fairy story you both seem to like so much until she was fast asleep, maybe she was just tiered from her day. It was a big day John, lots of people. Don’t worry so much, are you having a nice time?’ 

John had managed to make it a fair way across the garden by now, he thought suddenly that his feet were carrying him on a natural path towards the faint yellow glow, he could make out now that it seemed to be coming from a small shed like structure, he wondered what it was that caused that glowing,

_Could be dangerous_

The Sherlock voice that lived in the back of his mind, existed like an itch you just couldn’t reach, spoke up now, he did his best to ignore it during his everyday life but god did he miss the rush of a mystery, no matter how small this one was,

‘It’s alright so far, Mycroft’s home is lovely, as you’d expect really, ostentatious definitely. I’m just walking in the gardens right now and I swear Mrs Hudson you’ve never seen such well maintained flower beds,’

‘And what about the parents, I’ve forgotten their names,’  

‘Violet and Siger, unusual I know, but that should be no real surprise. Mrs Hudson, are you sure she was ok? She doesn’t have a fever? She wasn’t upset I wasn’t there?’ there’s a small sigh from the other end of the phone and John thinks it’s possible Mrs Hudson had been trying to distract him with talk of the older Holmes couple.  He continued to move closer to the structure, it looked to be at least half made out of glass, a shadow was clearly visible and John’s mind leapt to the possibility of an intruder, his blood started thrumming lightly with adrenaline, he felt it catch in his throat slightly, Mrs Hudson seemed to catch the slight quickening of his breath as panic for his daughter, her tone was kind if a little like that of an exacerbated mother,

‘Of course she was upset John, She is whenever you leave but you both have to get used to it. She’s perfectly fine just tiered, I’ll tell you what I’ll check on her in thirty minutes and check her forehead, if she feels even a little hot I’ll call, but until then shouldn’t you be socialising. I hope you’re making a good impression John Watson.’

Looking back to the house he realised the greenhouse would be mostly obscured from the positioning of the table and chairs; there was a chance Mycroft had failed to see the glow while they were together. But who was inside the building. Mrs Hudson was still enforcing her lesson about making a good impression but John had stopped listening for the most part.

‘Mrs Hudson I think you’re most likely correct, I should go and be more social. I just wanted to check in but if you’re certain all is well then I suppose I’ll leave you to enjoy your book.’

Mrs Hudson’s agreed to update him after each of her checks and they ended the conversation with her wishing him good luck, she’d been nervous for him before he’d left, straightening the not on his tie twice before going over the sleeves of his coat checking for dust or stray hairs.

John pocketed his phone, his eyes stayed focused on the front door the desire to investigate was becoming even more insistent, if Sherlock had been here he'd have been telling him his life now lacked danger, he lacked the outlet for his excess energy and adrenaline, he recognised it himself, that same desire for a fight that had followed him since adolescence.

He pushed the door slightly, hoping to get a clearer view of the individual whose shadow had covered one section of the glass wall, but he never got that far, the first thing to hit his senses was the smell, it was sweet but multi-tonal, john couldn’t identify each of the individual scents, there was something lemony but also something suspiciously like his Mrs Hudson’s favourite lily-of- the valley scent.  He half fell through the door, nearly ending up on his knees on the other side, he hadn’t realised he’d been leaning on it to such a degree, the second thing he noticed was the multitude of different shades of light, the walls were lined with wooden benches, each of them holding a different tone of light, softer yellows to more dim oranges and even a little blue light shone from near the back. The centre aisle was filled with more benches but these had a solid strip of light running from one end to the other and on every surface, as far as he could see were flowers. The colours and shapes of the petals varied but each of them had thick stalks growing out of the glass boxes and bowls their roots were enclosed in.  The effect was dreamlike, enchanting, it left John feeling oddly vulnerable,

‘Wonderful things Orchids, so varied in their blooms and markings but so overwhelmingly beautiful. Each breed has its own individual features and challenges, but I fail to think of a more universally appealing flower. But then again I am biased.’  

John, distracted as he was by the multitude of flowers surrounding him on all sides, had completely bypassed the other human being in the room. His attention now drawn back to his primary purpose in investigating, what he now recognised as a variation on a greenhouse, he found himself face to face with a silver haired gentleman, he was slightly taller than John but not to the degree that he’d need to incline his head to make eye contact, his features were weathered but certainly handsome, his face bore laughter lines and a multitude of wrinkles making what John imagined was once a sharply lined face softer. His eyes, although hidden behind square cut classes, bore a striking resemblance to his eldest son's. 

John tried to arrange his mouth in some semblance of a smile, he may be a poor man’s version of a consulting detective but he could deduce the relationship between the Holmes men in an instant, he may lack Sherlock’s distinct curls but the hawkish structure of the face was similar. Having made a fool of his entrance he attempted to find some form of decorum and his efforts were reassured through the man’s relaxed posture, age and the fact he seemed to be finding a certain level of humour in John’s inelegant half sprawled entrance. In the hopes of putting himself on a positive footing with Siger Holmes, he straightened his posture and clasped his, slightly shaking, hands behind his back. He moved to consider the blooms on the centre arrangement. They held tiny white petals surrounding an extended orange centre, the smelt strongly of vanilla but with an underlying spice John couldn't identify.

‘I can't say I've had a great deal of exposure to Orchids before but these are quite beautiful.’  

He moved his arm to indicate the room at large, he wondered if this was a hobby of Mycroft’s he didn't strike as being a man with much spare time but perhaps like Sherlock he didn't sleep, maybe these Orchids were his version of destroying a kitchen with experiments, if they were john had to admire the man's style, he imagined he wouldn’t have held such issue with Sherlock’s antics if the flat had forever held this combination of smells. They were intoxicating.  

‘Ah, you like the Oncidium, a beautiful flower, spiced vanilla fragrance, suitable to be grown indoors without regulating their heat, they do require slightly more shade than some other members of this branch of the orchid family’, he indicates the other examples on the same table, ‘but a very attractive example of a small orchid variety.’

John moved further into the structure, his newly acquired guide occasionally stopping him to smell a specific example, explaining in detail about the treatments and care provisions required for each. John exclaims once at the supposed worth of one of the rarer examples causing his guide to chuckle lightly,

‘Rare flowers, especially beautiful ones such as these, can sell for thousands of pounds.’ At John’s continued looks of shock and doubt, the man explains in terms of supply and demand, some of the Orchids in this room are one of ten examples held around the world and some others are unique; John understands this point to some degree but the idea of ever becoming so enamoured with the plants to spend so much money on a single one strikes him as ludicrous. There’s a knock on the glass door back where they started their tour. The brunette from early, John remembers she said to call her Holly, stepped quickly into the room before closing the door behind her.

‘Mr Holmes, your wife wished for me to inform you that dinner is ready to be served, if you and Dr Watson would like to make your way to the main house, I believe Mrs Holmes is waiting in the drawing room presently.’ 

‘Very well my dear, please inform my wife that myself and Doctor Watson will arrive shortly and that they shouldn’t wait to seat themselves if they wish. We won’t be long.’ Mr Holmes expression is a kind one but John thinks he sees a flash of annoyance cross his expression momentarily, it’s fleeting enough that he can’t imagine Holly would have seen and if the broad smile she wears when leaving is any indication she left in high spirits. Mr Holmes sighs slightly before turning bodily towards John. They’ve made it to near enough the end of the aisle; the other side holds an even broader range of colours, but the happy atmosphere that had surrounded them through their earlier examination has shrunk somewhat at the prospect of returning to the company of others, he can see what Mycroft was referring to when he described his and Sherlock’s father, the man gives off an air of calm serenity but with a quick wit and dry humour John’s seen the other Holmes men share.

‘It seems as if our tour will have to be postponed Doctor Watson, I doubt Mycroft will object to us continuing it at some later point.’

John smiles and follows him out of the greenhouse, once they're outside John’s surprised by how dark it’s become, he surreptitiously checks his watch and realises they passed near enough three quarters of an hour examining the plants, they walk across the lawn at a gentle pace, John wonders what the garden looks like in the day light or the summer, he imagines it to be a great place for entertaining. Mycroft most likely holds grand gatherings complete with servers and pristine white marquees but he thinks the place would be perfect for a barbecue and bonfire party, he hasn't thrown anything of the sort since being a teenager and the memories of well spent summers  make him silently glad for his slightly rougher upbringing than he imagines the Holmes family provided Mycroft and Sherlock, he can’t imagine the lithe and graceful teen in the photo albums he found spending summer holidays playing football in the park and invading the woods to have bonfires. He hopes at least that Sherlock had friends but everything he knows would suggest not.

They're about to reach the veranda when Mr Holmes stops, John follows his example and inclines his head skyward, the stars are clearer than he’s used to, being in the centre of the UK’s capital has its drawbacks,

‘Do you know the constellations Doctor Watson?’ John thinks back to Mina’s pushchair and the internal views of the night sky,

‘I know some, Mycroft likes to buy Mina things involving star systems and, well, when I was in Afghanistan the night sky was beautiful, industrialisation is much lower over there you understand, their skies are free of light pollution and you can make out the constellations clearly. They have different names for some of them though, my team, we had a translator, a local, to make communication with the villagers easier. He taught me some of them,’ he can see the other man smiling broadly,

‘My wife will be impressed, she’s rather fond of astronomy, could never get Sherlock to give two figs about the universe though, although I suppose you already know that.’ John remembers the conversations, when he was first being accustomed to the idea of mind palaces and Sherlock’s ability to delete information he found uninteresting or unimportant. He imagined it must have been a point of contention between mother and son however if she’d been found on the topic. Certainly his mother had taken issue with his disinterest in mechanics, the rest of the men in the family taking jobs in the area while he wanted to be a doctor. ‘My wife, Violet, you’ll meet her in a minute, she’s rather eager to meet young Mina.’ John already knew this, that was the purpose of the evening after all,

‘Yes, Mycroft told me, I’m sure we can organise something. I just wanted the chance to meet you first, maybe answer your questions. I don’t like to talk about certain topics in front of her.’

‘Mycroft explained but that wasn’t my reason for mentioning it, she can be quite forceful when she wants to be, Violet, I love her dearly but she’s not an easy woman. No, I wanted to mention it because I want you to understand that you can say no.’ John’s shocked, having spent near enough an hour in Siger’s company he fails to imagine a situation where he wouldn’t want Mina to know him. ‘I want you to understand that this is your choice, we will not force ourselves upon you, you are doing something rather wonderful in raising her and we wouldn’t want to interfere. She is primarily your daughter Doctor Watson and as such you have final say about those allowed to be in her company.’

‘You should really call me John,’ it’s all he can think to say, he can see the sentiment behind the words but he also knows he’s already made the decision. He would never keep Mina’s grandparents at a distance, she should be allowed the chance to know them and they her.

‘I appreciate the sentiment and there may be occasions where I make parenting decisions without consulting for wider opinions, but for the most part, I want her family to be involved, I can’t imagine how I would have lasted this long without Mycroft’s help and I know you maintained a distance in order to allow Mina and myself the opportunity to bond. I want to thank you both for that’ Siger moves his hand to brush off the thanks, John means them though, ‘but I want you to be involved, truly, in whichever manner Is most appropriate. I understand that it might be difficult for you, she reminds me on a daily basis of Sherlock but, if you would want to be, I see no reason why you wouldn’t be involved in every aspect of her life.’

John’s fighting hard against the instinct to hide any emotion from this man, he was raised in a family where negative emotions negative emotions were repressed until violence ensued, he’s tried so hard to disregard those lessons but sometimes, especially when faced with a person whose good opinion he is eager to garner, he falls back on them. He thinks he understands Siger, from the things Mycroft’s told him and the short time he’s spent alone with the man, to know that being stoic and emotionless would hardly impress him. He wears his emotions on his face, honesty interwoven his mannerisms, at least in his interactions with John that has been the case.

Siger clasps his shoulder briefly before facing him, John takes the hand stretching towards him and feels a firm grip, ‘There is nothing I want more than to know her and if I am to call you John then you must call me Siger, my wife shall be suitably scandalised and we may make it to the main course before she starts bombarding you with inappropriately personal questions’  John laughs at this, he lived with Sherlock Holmes for long enough to no longer take offence at being asked ridiculously personal questions over a meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/MaryJane221b 
> 
> Also Universities in the UK have just broken up for Easter break so i'm hopeful for more updates than normal over the next three weeks. Wish me luck, MJ X
> 
> A.N. My beautiful friend Ruby helped me figure out some key character points for this chapter and I couldn't adore her more. Thank you for answering all of my science queeries and allowing me to ask you stupid questions early in the morning, you're my superstar!


	16. The Dinner- Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.W. Discussions of Mina related issues

Had Mycroft been asked to describe his Mother patient would not have been one of words he would have chosen,

‘Mother if you could find it in yourself to stop the pacing my hearth rug would surely appreciate it’ the frankly withering stare he received in way of an answer had him pouring a far more generous measure of wine into the glass he was preparing for her.

‘I just fail to understand what is taking that girl so long, is it too much to ask that one of your staff perform a task in a timely manner, by the heavens I swear I should just have collected them myself. Just like with the care of poor Gregory, I am glad you saw reason and allowed me to care for him, lord knows what would have befallen him if you had entrusted him to one of your girls.’

Mycroft tried not to cringe at his mother addressing his team of highly trained agents as ‘your girls’ he had tried explaining on numerous occasions that the women formed part of his governmental workforce but his mother maintained the opinion that they were hers to order at will. Anthea in particular had developed a grin and bear it attitude to interactions with his mother. Not to mention that the truth was he had left Gregory’s care to his staff until his mother had brow beaten him into submission, she had witnessed him carrying the Detective into the house after the man had passed out in the car, seen him place the man on the sofa and check him for injuries, she had seen his panicked pacing when his security team had informed him Gregory was refusing treatment at the hospital, (and unknown to him she had also come across him dozing lightly on the bed next to the silver haired man, laying on his side one arm laying across the top of the pillow holding Gregory’s head and the other thrown across his companion) Mycroft had woken to find his hand resting over the man’s heart its steady rhythm having lulled him to a dreamless sleep, when he walked into the hall, slightly chagrined to have slept next to the man he harboured a seemingly unending devotion for without his knowledge he had found his mother waiting.

She had proceeded to look him over once, cup his face in her hands and declare Gregory to be her patient for the duration of his stay, Mycroft had objected, going as far as using John’s impending visit as a reason for her to keep her distance. Of course she had insisted she was perfectly able to do both before she pushed her way past him into his bedroom. So he had left her to her ministrations safe in the knowledge his staff were on hand to prevent his mother from becoming too enthusiastic in her care. He wouldn’t have put it past her to try shaving the man’s face or washing his hair.

‘Mother you know full well Holly passed along your message and this delay is merely John and Father taking their time in returning, you know how father likes to amble, now stop your pacing and come and drink your wine. I asked for your favourite vintage to be prepared.’  

His mother collected her glass before standing at the drawing room’s window;  it looked out over the lawn and rose beds but Mycroft doubted she would see much through the days fading light, the other members of their party would arrive in due time and there was no point in her working herself up this way. She had lamented Gregory having to leave so soon after he woke up, a mere five hours of his delightful company was not nearly enough she declared, but he had insisted he had important matters to attend to. She had allowed the farewells only after she had forced an agreement for afternoon tea before they returned to Yorkshire the following week.

 Mycroft would have endeavoured to provide the man with a suitable escape from the engagement but he was a selfish man at heart and the idea of more time with the man was a gift he was unlikely to turn down.

‘Oh I think I see them coming, how do I look Myc?’

‘Honestly Mother, Mycroft is the name you gave me if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end.’  Violet merely tuts at him on her way to once again fix her hair in the mirror, ‘You look fine Mother, I hardly think Doctor Watson will think badly of you if you have a hair out of place.’

‘There is nothing wrong with projecting a perfect self image Mycroft; you only get one chance to make a first impression. You must always use it wisely.’

One of the key messages of his childhood summed up in a sentence. His Mother and Grandfather had instilled the importance of appearance to both himself and Sherlock from the age they could understand such concepts. His Mother was possessed of a natural elegance which spoke to her years of ballet and an overwhelming charm she had perfected to blend more smoothly with British Society.

She was a sight to behold amongst the ladies of Society, as she still liked to call them; she shone brightly with her French wit and the accent she pulled out for special occasions. It would never do for those same said women to know she had long ago adapted to living in the Yorkshire countryside with the adoption of a more genial British enunciation. The family still opened the Manor grounds once a year to hold to local village summer fete, his mother had taken to running a stall for the local children to decorate macaroons, unable to resist her little piece of French heritage.

But now she stood, posture perfect, wine glass placed on a coaster on the side table to her right, facial features held in a neutral arrangement devoid of any strong emotion, except perhaps in her eyes, Mycroft thought to himself before standing as to be able to perform introductions, his Mother’s eyes held a slither of panic he was unused to but before he had the chance to offer her reassurances however the door leading to the hall opened wide and the two remaining members of their dinner party entered. The pair was in good spirits, laughter evident in their features and Mycroft deduced no tension between the two, clearly meeting in a less formal setting had put the men at ease. Siger had been snappish for the preceding hours preferring to take himself off to tend to Mycroft’s, somewhat neglected, orchids rather than be forced into his mothers endless dinner preparations.

‘Doctor Watson, I trust you found the gardens a pleasing diversion?’ John returned his proffered smile with a short nod before turning to his Mother, ‘Doctor Watson, may I introduce my mother, the Lady Violet Holmes, I see you have already met my Father.’  His mother came forwards her hand gently touching his arm before extending her hand to John,

‘Doctor Watson, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. We have heard so much about you from our boys.’

‘Please Lady Holmes call me John, Doctor Watson makes me feel as if I should be working.’ John’s smile is warm and Mycroft is glad whatever anxiety he had been carrying upon his arrival had been lost somewhere in the garden,

‘In that case you simply must call me Violet; I hope you are ready for dinner John it seems Mycroft’s planning left little time for socialising before our meal, but perhaps you  intend to stay afterwards for drinks,’

The reprimand was not lost of Mycroft, it was true that he had arranged the evening to prevent too much interaction occurring before dinner, his thinking being that some of topics they were likely to touch on may leave some of them with a significantly reduced appetite, Doctor Watson had developed a worrying habit of neglecting himself in this way after Sherlock’s death, he had been glad to assess Mina’s arrival had put an end to this specific version of self chastisement but he was unwilling to risk upsetting what he viewed to be a delicate position. The man had been subject to a Post traumatic episode only this morning and Mycroft had taken it upon himself to ensure this evening did not exacerbate that. 

‘Dinner sounds delightful, please lead the way’, Violet slips her hand onto John’s arm as the pair leave the drawing room, his mother had pushed for the formal dining room to be arranged and Mycroft had felt no great desire to oppose her wishes, it did mean they would be four eating at a table suitable for twelve but he supposed his staff would have found a way to make the space less imposing.

‘What precisely has your mother organised for dinner this evening, I fear I have been paying very little attention Mycroft.’  His father was right to be worried, food was one of the few sources of disquiet in his parents’ marriage and his father had simple tastes, preferring dinners to consist of a maximum of three courses and nothing too astoundingly rich being involved, his mother on the other hand, well she liked indulgence, the fact she had Sherlock’s physique and metabolism was a key reason she failed to recognise his or his fathers consternation at the sheer number of calories she could fit into one course.  

‘I believe we shall be at a significant disadvantage this evening Father, Mother seems to have come over all French, would you believe it’ Siger’s quiet chuckle continued as they made their way through the foyer to the dining room,

‘We best save John then, preferably before she provides him with enough escargot and bouillabaisse to have him smelling of garlic for a month.’  It was more the use of such a serious tone that led to Mycroft’s own bark of amusement in response to his Fathers statement.

The first three courses passed in a blur, the combination of rich sauces, good wine and everyone’s seemingly jovial mood providing a much more pleasant atmosphere than Mycroft would have hoped for. In part this may have been caused by the serves continued insistence of providing as much of said wine as possible, his father’s contribution no doubt, but such actions were leading to his mothers cheeks having a slightly pink glow and John himself becoming slightly lose tongued.

The four of them shared in jokes and stories of travel and work, John sharing stories from his time in the army and his periods of leave spent all over the world, Mycroft had never realised the breadth of the man’s travel experience and wondered why he had continued to travel so far afield when it was clear to everyone how dearly he loved England,  his Father spinning tales of espionage and betrayal within the botany world, Mycroft knew the stories and knew their details were not as lurid as Siger was painting them but John appeared rapt on every detail while seeming to equally enjoy his mothers grandiose retellings of the devious nature of French scientists.

Mycroft’s own objections to the idea that French scientists were in anyway more competitive than other European nations was met with loud exclamations in his Mother’s native tongue and his Father’s unsympathetic raised eyebrow, he should have known better than to insinuate the French in anyway lost out to another nation, in anything, even something as apparently villainous as patent stealing or the destruction of experiments, he’d had to offer his surrender in perfect French just to ensure her return to the shared tongue of the rest of table. John seemed to find the entire exchange overwhelmingly amusing, his quiet laughter a constant feature throughout his Mother’s tirade.

The main course was accompanied by Siger’s tales of growing up in the countryside and his rejection of the family plan, he had never wanted to be a politician, had no desire to hold any power, his two brothers had done slightly better for themselves in his grandfather’s eyes but  none of them had shown much of a desire for a life outside of their chosen professions, Mycroft saw the flash of recognition in John’s eyes when his father laughed at how they’d all referred to themselves as being ‘married to their work’.

Mycroft knew the time had come to bite the proverbial bullet and get the serious conversations underway, ‘I fear ruining the tone of this evening but there are issues we must discuss, I know everyone at this table has questions which need answering and as lovely as this meal has been I believe the time has come for those questions to be asked. In this vein I suggest we retire to the family room next door and accompany our desert with some coffee.’

His mother shot him a look of relief, she had arguably been on her best behaviour all evening, that much was clear, but he knew her subconscious was riddled with questions, misgivings and a great deal of worry.  She’d clearly been holding them in hoping to win John over somewhat but Mycroft understood that restraint would only have lasted so much longer. Better for him to take control of the conversation now before it devolved into something obstructive; it was in all of their best interests, not to mention the interests of Mina, to create an open dialogue sooner rather than later.  He turned to John and the man’s continued smile gave Mycroft hope that this interaction may go more smoothly than their initial interactions concerning his niece.  

They rose as a group retreating to fill the fire lit reception room where a coffee service was already waiting for them; his staff was truly exceptional. Mycroft could already sense sudden influx of tension permeating the room but there was nothing to be done for it,

‘It is worth stating before this conversation begins that I have explained the basics of Mina’s previous life to my parents, in as much detail as we have, no one in this room is under any misconceptions as to the life she must have been subject too before coming to D.I. Lestrade’s attention and then into John’s care.’

Mycroft notes John’s quiet exhale and wonders if he’d anticipated having to sit through a hellish hour of the details surrounding his daughter’s previous life, ‘Since then, John, I have kept my parents updated about any improvements you have reported with regards to Mina’s health and or wellbeing, my mother I believe has more questions pertaining to those changes,’ he leaves the sentence open hoping his mother will jump in with one of the many questions she’s been throwing at him over the previous week.

He had been unable to answer her enquiries in the detail she’d apparently desired leading to a heated argument which had ended with his mother threatening to move to London so she could conduct her own surveillance as his was clearly failing her, his father had done a great deal of the mollifying on that occasion and she seemed to have calmed a great deal once Mycroft had sent them an email with a small portion of video footage John had sent him; the clip had shown Mina riding her rocking horse, a small piece of Holmes heritage Mycroft had provided his beloved niece, the fact she’d taken to the imitation animal so thoroughly had provided him with a great deal of pleasure, Sherlock had always loved horses, along with Redbeard  and thoroughbred Toby had been the closest he had come to friends until he had made the change to university. Memories of watching his brother compete had flashed through his head while watching his niece play with the gift. No matter John’s objections he was determined to provide her with all the lessons she desired when the time came.

‘Is she happy John?’ It might be the most succinct he has ever heard his mother be in relation to Mina, but as Mycroft quickly scans the litany of questions she’d asked this one simple question does sum up the majority of them, her concerns had been around her retention of memories, her recovery from any trauma, her physical healing, her development, but overall he can see how they all stemmed from the one enquiry.

‘Yes I believe she is happy, as happy as any other nineteen month old child.’

‘Is she well?’

‘Physically, yes, you will know of course that she has scars on parts of her body,’ Violet moves to clasp her husband’s hand tightly, Mycroft had shared this information with them but in his experience it is still very difficult to hear, ‘they have healed as well as can be expected and apart from that the issues when she first came into my care concerned nutrition, those have been for the most part corrected. She no longer has any vitamin deficiencies and has moved on to a diet of solid foods,  this week she is particularly taken with bananas,’ John throws a small grin in Mycroft’s direction, it is true that he has been ensuring abundances of any item Mina seems to favour, ‘Mentally the situation is more complicated, she has nightmares, as she continues to have minimal verbal communication skills finding out their contents is near impossible, certain situations seem to cause a variation of an anxiety attack, in her case this manifests as screaming or occasionally silent crying. She is a highly affectionate child, but her doctor has suggested she may have a form of separation anxiety,’ Mycroft watches as his mother systematically folds one of the lace handkerchiefs she always carries with her,

‘What can we do? What help can she have? She is so young’ John moved to kneel in front of Violet, he takes her shaking hands gently in his own, his voice is soft,

‘From the research I have done and from the doctors that have been consulted the treatment revolves around providing love and safety, making sure to provide comfort when she reacts in a specific way as well as learning her triggers,’

‘What triggers? I don’t understand’

‘A trigger, in this case a trauma trigger, is something that causes a flashback, a recollection of the original trauma. They can be any number of things, people, places, sounds, smells for some people taste also plays a serious part in the process but that’s less common. For Mina the majority seem to revolve around items or certain social situations. She seems to have a form of claustrophobia; she can’t be in enclosed spaces for long periods of time, she reacts badly to shouting, we discovered that with the television, she panicked when she saw someone smoking so I tend to believe it might be a trigger.’ Mycroft makes a mental note of the last one; it was something he hadn’t realised, yet another reason to attempt quitting again.

‘These triggers, is she always distressed afterwards?’

‘Yes she panics afterwards but we’ve learnt how to comfort her. Removing her from the situation is the first reaction I have but I am aware we will need to work on her ability to be in crowds as she grows older. School would be a nightmare otherwise’

‘What about therapy? Do the doctors not want to involve a psychologist? Someone who specialises in trauma,’ Mycroft chooses to interrupt her here, his mother is clearly on the verge of panic and he can see this conversation continuing all evening. The truth was Mina’s treatment is well covered, the very best doctors in the country would be providing her with every care she needed for the rest of her life; he and John have already discussed this is great detail. He offered  his parents all the details he could remember in one short speech, John nodded along with the details, details pertaining to the reputation of the doctors and facilities, but he still maintained a light hold his mother’s hands, the doctor was a very physical man Mycroft had noted, he was forever hugging both Mina and Mrs Hudson, perhaps it was a matter of training or personal preference.  

‘I just wish there was more we could do.’

‘We all do Mother but be assured everything that can be done is she will never be without support.’ She does not look convinced, something that is clearly not lost on any of the men present.

‘What would reassure you Vi? Mina has a doctor for a father, not to mention an uncle whose influence could get her pushed to the head of any waiting list; I think we have fallen into focussing too much on the negative darling. We promised we would try not to do that remember?’ John had released her hands so Siger could hold them once more.

Mycroft rose from his chair to ask a hovering member of staff to remove the remnants of their coffee, none of them had touched their deserts and although he dearly wanted to, he thought the reaction may be being caused by emotional distress rather than any great hunger. Chocolate had always formed a large portion of his comfort food routine, being surrounded by such high levels of emotional distress tended to warrant such behaviour reasserting itself but he refused to fall back on all of his bad habits in one evening.

His mother seemed to be calming somewhat, her face was pressed lightly into his father’s shoulder and it gave Mycroft such a vivid memory of that night five months ago, when he had been responsible for telling them of his younger brother’s death, that he made to slip out of the room after Holly who was removing the tray.

 ***

Siger saw his son leave but made no move to stop him, his sons were some of the finest brains in United Kingdom but he would be damned if either of them had ever been able to handle displays of emotion. He noticed John moving to stand by the window behind them, awarding him and his wife as much privacy as the room would allow.

He imagined the young Doctor was unwilling to walk around the house unaccompanied but was in need of some sort of distance. He had tracked the doctor’s emotions through the man’s eyes; they were highly expressive when he was behaving in an unguarded way. His medical training had clearly allowed him to appear detached while still compassionate, a large part of his bedside manner Siger imagined, but they could not escape the reality that they were discussing family, a concept it was clear they all held most dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed the chapter's been separated again, this entire section is a complete beast. But the completed chapter would have been 8000 words and even for me that's a bit much. So the next chapter is done and being proof read. It will be up tomorrow evening. MJ X


	17. The Dinner - Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.W. Discussion of postnatal depression

Mycroft stood under the front portico and contemplated the night sky; he had spent large portions of the first eight years of his life doing just this; alongside his mother. They had spent their summers tracking constellations and the movements of different cloud types, he had never been a child prone to flights of fancy, unlike Sherlock, but he had loved the stars. It was one of the reasons why so many of his gifts to Mina involved astrological elements. It was one of the few memories from his childhood that he still cherished; he wanted to provide her with the same feelings of wonder.

His life had changed just before his eighth birthday when his brother was born, he had spent the eight months leading up to his arrival on tenterhooks, his excitement could not be contained in the school rooms of the tutors his family employed and he spent many afternoons sneaking in to see his mother, he would lay with his head in her lap as she conducted experiments or considered equations. She would pause often to explain her workings and run her fingers through his hair; even now in his early forties he finds comfort in the memories of her soft attentions.

His brother had been born at home, through what he now knows was a difficult labour, his mother suffering for twenty hours before the doctors even contemplated moving her to a hospital, in the end it was too late and William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born in his parents’ bedroom, small and screaming. His mother had been rushed to hospital soon after for blood loss.

He remembers his father’s face when he had been left with the scrawny new born and forced to watch his wife being loaded into an ambulance nevertheless they continued with life, Mycroft providing any aid he could at the age of seven, he would sit with his brother in the garden while their father worked in his greenhouse, telling him all he knew of clouds and the movements of the sun and moon; everything he could remember his mother telling him in their afternoons in the garden. Mycroft learned to feed and sooth him; he would sing French lullabies to him while he stayed stubbornly awake once their father had fallen asleep for the evening, normally slumped in the rocking chair the nursery had always carried.

His father had told him his mother was returning, her treatment at the hospital had been completed and her doctors were sending her home. From that day until her return he spent his days telling stories about her, the cuddles she gave and making promises of the games they would play once he could walk; their mother was a keen croquet player and had been teaching him the rules throughout her pregnancy and so on the day of her return, an unseasonably balmy morning for early September, he waited in his best church clothes for his mothers arrival. But the woman who returned was not his mother, she inhabited the same body but nothing about her was familiar, even her eyes, once vibrantly blue were dulled by her condition. In the nineteen seventies the health service had known little of the existence of postnatal depression, the doctors believed she was simply in shock following the traumatic birth and extended hospital visit, they said being at home and exposed to the comforts of family would serve her recovery well.

 All Mycroft knew was they were wrong; he had been able to tell after merely a week that everything would be different now. His mother’s moods passed in such quick succession, she became thoroughly unpredictable, screaming in French at his father, throwing her equipment across rooms, staring out the bedroom windows longingly but never wanting to leave the room. She refused to be left alone with her children, screamed at Siger to remove them when the nursery maid brought them to see her in those first few days. Mycroft was confused, where had his mother gone and why was the woman so mad now, why didn’t she want to see him. What had he done wrong? He had told his father, who had taken to spending most afternoons with Sherlock in the greenhouse,  that he thought someone had magically removed his mummy’s happiness and Mycroft remembered his father telling him that they just had to try extra hard to make everything perfect for her and then maybe her happiness would come back. 

So he did, he bought her fresh flowers every day, practiced his reading while sitting on the bed next to her, he spent his eighth birthday cradling his brother in their nursery while listening to his mother have a panic attack across the hall. Even as the months past and she managed to leave her bed she had no interest in playing games anymore, no interest in continuing their studies of physics. He would find her some afternoons, once his tutors had freed him for the day standing over the bassinette simply watching his brother cry. She seemed to only half hear him most days, drifting through the rooms of the family wing dressed in her night clothes. It was six months later that his father first had to leave them, it would be for two weeks and his Grandparents would come to provide any supervision that was needed. Mycroft hated his grandparents visits, his grandfather was mean and his grandmother smelt of burnt sugar when he had to kiss her cheek, Mycroft had cried in his father’s embrace that evening, Siger had tried to sooth him, reassure him that nothing bad would happen in his absence and that two weeks would pass faster than he could imagine. He had been wrong on both counts.

It took five days for everything to come to a head, the new nanny was an imbecile who left Sherlock unattended the majority of the day, preferring to continue he dalliance with one of the kitchen porters rather than do her job, but Mycroft did not care too much. He was well versed in his brother’s care and capable of providing everything he could need, Sherlock had been screaming for an hour before Mycroft managed to liberate him from his crib, left to his own devices he had pulled one of the arms off a particularly ugly bear their Grandmother had provided Mycroft with on his fourth birthday, Mycroft had hardly minded the mauled object, what he had minded was his brother having a the animals stuffing running through his out of control ringlets.  Mycroft had collected him, moving into the adjoining bathroom to run Sherlock a bath, he had seen his father do so almost every day over the proceeding half a year and thought he could handle it. His brother loved bath time and Mycroft held him up so he could watch the bubbles blossom on the water’s surface.   

_‘Bubbles ‘Lockie can you say bubbles, probably not and anyway it would be best if your first word was something more original anyway. Nothing too normal you understand, mine was star but you are far smarter than I was. Perhaps science or experiment, mummy would be awfully happy if you were a scientist ‘Lockie and we have to always mummy happy. That is what father says.’_

Mycroft remembered everything about that evening, remembered helping Sherlock into the bath, washing his hair, picking the larger sections of stuffing out in order to expedite the activity. He remembered Sherlock’s laughter when Mycroft taught him to make a bubble beard, how the nanny had returned just as he was washing the shampoo out of Sherlock’s hair. She had grabbed his arm, shouting about how irresponsible he was being, when she had pulled him Sherlock had slipped, leaning back as he had been, he lost balance, his head coming into contact with the porcelain bathtub before Mycroft could catch him. They had both cried then, the nanny screaming at Mycroft that it was his entire fault, he had hurt his brother. The moment his mother swept into the room he thought he was saved, the nanny started spluttering explanations, blaming Mycroft. His mother merely looked at him, her eyes still mostly empty. She had taken Sherlock out of the nanny’s arms and held him close while asking Mycroft to explain what had happened in as much detail as he could. At the time he had been reminded of the birds of prey his father had taken him to see when she had looked at him, he now knew she had been deducing him.

He had told her everything, she had believed him and the nanny had been fired later that day. Two days past and Mycroft believed the matter to be over, his mother had started to pay more attention to Sherlock, she was not how he remembered but she was around and it meant the family made no moves to hire a new nanny and so when his Grandfather called him into his father’s office he imagined it had more to do with his two days of missed tutoring rather than the nanny incident.

_‘Mycroft a place has opened up at Witham Hall for the new term, Jenkins will be accompanying you tomorrow to have your uniform tailored.  Given the distance between the estate and your school you will be boarding for the duration of your education there. I am sure you will enjoy the experience, attendance at Witham is a Holmes tradition.’_

There had been no discussion, when he had run to his mother, crying at the knowledge he would have to leave his family to go to school she had looked over the garden and explained to him about family duty and the expected position of the head of the Holmes family.

_‘Everyone has to leave home Mycroft’_

_‘But Mummy I want to stay, please don’t make me go’_

_‘Stop your crying Mycroft, it is undignified. Caring is not an advantage Mycroft you would do best to remember that.’_

She had left him in the nursery then; he had never felt more alone.

***

‘Mycroft are you out here?’  John had finally found his hosts hiding place, the man seemed to jump out of his skin at his appearance, it reminded him of the few times he had managed to drag Sherlock out of his mind palace. ‘Aren’t you freezing sitting out here?’ the man was sitting in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, his suit jacket having been abandoned after the second bottle of wine had been opened. All four of the adults present were suffering to some degree from its influence but John figured Violet was the most affected. The combination of alcohol, stress and a strong emotional reaction had done a number on the woman, John had accompanied her and Siger upstairs and after checking the ingredients on the sleeping tablets the woman had he’d agreed she could take a half dose without it causing her any harm. Siger had been grateful for the help in calming his wife, he’d had explained quickly to John that she was prone to fits of depression occasionally but that she rarely became hysterical. When John had enquired about the sleeping pills Siger had reluctantly agreed the doctor had prescribed them shortly after Sherlock’s death, his wife had taken the news hard and held a great deal of guilt in the memories of her youngest son.

Siger had gone to inform the staff of the changed number to their party while John volunteered to go in search of Mycroft, Siger had seemed reluctant to John’s suggestion but acquiesce when John promised not to disturb him if he found him working. But Sherlock’s brother didn’t appear to be working, if John didn’t know the man better he would have said he was daydreaming.

‘I apologise John, I was lost in thought. I should not have left you alone with my parents for so long.’ Mycroft seems embarrassed, especially when he moves to check his pocket watch, near enough fifty minutes have passed since John noticed Mycroft’s absence,

‘No harm done, did you need to sneak another cigarette, this evening likely hasn’t reduced your stress any, I’m sorry.’  Mycroft barks a laugh at this, the sound is harsh in the calm and silence of the night air, John hears an undertone of aggression in Mycroft’s tone but thinks better of mentioning it. 

‘John there is nothing for you to apologise about, I had not realised the extent to which a few facts would affect my mother. I am not,’

Mycroft pauses here, he’s clearly extremely uncomfortable, John can’t say anything about the last  two hours has been pleasant for him either but this must be more complicated for Mycroft. There’s a certain undercurrent to his relationship with his mother, clear adoration on one level and something like bitterness as well. The two juxtapose each other to such a degree that their interactions seem stilted. John had wondered if it was merely the presence of a stranger in their midst but it’s becoming steadily clearer that the two have some unresolved issues.

‘I am not comfortable but such emotional scenes, I am sure this is no surprise to you but all the same I should explain that it is worse with my mother. Her emotions have such extremes, she is sometimes so very out of control and I have a strong dislike for such illogical reactions. This evening for example, she knew all of that information and yet still, that was her reaction. It is impossible to have a serious conversation with her when she is like this.’ Mycroft is breathing heavily after the outburst, his voice has risen by such a degree that John is glad his mother’s bedroom is at the back of the house.

‘Mycroft it’s hardly her fault, we’re talking about her Granddaughter and there’s a difference between reading something and having it explained to you. I agree that her reaction makes conversation difficult but they’re entirely understandable and there are ways around it. I told her to write me a letter with her questions, I shall write back and she shall have her answers. It seemed to be an elegant solution to the problem.’

 The front door is protected from the elements by a small portico, between the white pillars at the front and the solid dark wood door are two low walls, they provide a border between the flowerbeds lining the front façade of the house and the entry. Mycroft sinks onto one of the walls, his arms supported by his knees while his hands cup his face. John doesn’t want to pry, no matter his relationship with Sherlock or his now seeming relation to Holmes family he does not know Mycroft well enough to know if he would accept any comfort through his distress. He decides to act halfway between his instinct to provide care and his respect for the man’s personal space. He sits on the opposite piece of wall so he’s facing Mycroft but he makes no move to instigate further conversation, if the man asks him to leave he will but on the off chance he wants company John is inclined to stay.  They stay silent for a long time, at some point Mycroft moves his hands so they no longer cover his face, he clasps them together instead but seems unwilling to make eye contact.  After a break of ten minutes Mycroft speaks again;

‘All I have ever wanted John is for them to be happy,’ he says it with such emotional intent that John is taken aback, he’s never heard Mycroft’s voice break in that manner, he fails to recollect a time when it’s been anything other than solid,

‘Who do you mean?’ Mycroft smiles slightly at that, under different circumstances John would make a joke about not being a mind reader like the Holmes brother, but tonight is not such an occasion.

‘Nothing John, nothing it doesn’t matter. We should return indoors, you were correct in your first assessment it is too cold to be outside.’

‘No, wait Mycroft,’ Mycroft stops halfway through the door and turns halfway towards John, ‘You know you’ve not let anyone down right? I mean, it’s not your responsibility to keep everyone happy.’

Mycroft chuckles lightly at this, but to John there’s no happiness in it, ‘How little you know John, that’s always been my responsibility.’  John, who’s spent the majority of his life caring for others is crushed both by understanding, because he has often felt this way, and a deep seated sadness, because he knows from experience that there is little someone can say to remove that feeling of guilt and responsibility.

‘I meant what I said earlier, Mina, she is happy.’ He has an idea, something that will perhaps lighten the severely diminished tone of the evening. It would most likely be a pleasant way to end it in any case, ‘Come on I have something to show you.’  He follows Mycroft back into the house and continues of the path back to what he remembers Mycroft calling the family room. Siger is seated once more on one sofa and John points, by way of instruction, at the seat next to him hoping Mycroft will sit.

‘The quality might not be very good and the sound a little tinny, but still,’ he hands over his phone where he’s loaded a small video clip. He recognises the audio from his journey in the car, he watched the clip on repeat while waiting to arrive and it had kept him sane for the most part. Although his earlier deep set obsession with his tie choice now makes him feel foolish.

He hears Mrs Hudson’s voice trying to coax more words out of Mina, who laughs in return; she’d hidden her face in John’s neck then, hiding from the camera,

“Come on little dove say something for the camera,” that was Tammy; John had been highly amused by the women’s determination.  The clip he’s showing them is one of four from this morning alone but it’s the one with the best moment,

“Ladies I think she’s had enough for one day, but she did so well, you did poppet, so well.”

“Dada”  and there it was, he watched Mycroft’s face dissolve into shock as he dragged his finger across the screen to have it play again, which it did, Siger was wearing a grin the likes of which John wouldn’t have imagined a Holmes could make,  Mycroft moves to play the moment again but John raises his hand to stop him,

‘Wait there’s more’

The adults in the clip are clapping and exclaiming, in the video John knows Mina moves her hand up to cover his mouth, she wasn’t fond of loud noises, even pleasant ones such as laughter,

“Dada no!” It’s the attitude inherent in the tone which cracks him up every time, you can’t see it on screen but it had been accompanied by the most perfectly Sherlock pout John had dissolved into a fit of shocked giggles. Mina amused by the effect as well as the gentle bouncing being caused by John’s actions had joined in,

“No, no, no, no” the video ends on the on screen collected adult’s laughter. A moment of silence accompanies the ending of the clip but it’s soon broken by a booming laugh from Siger, Mycroft follows shortly after and all John can do is grin. Mina had this effect on him every day, she made him happy every day and he loved being a father.

Once the laughter’s died down they’re left with ridiculous grins, the atmosphere is slightly more relaxed and John allows himself to sink back slightly into the sofa, it is ridiculously comfortable and no matter how much emotional upheaval they’ve been exposed too over the past several hours he is still a little drunk. Not too much mind, but enough that he’s able to feel properly comfortable in the presence of two men he finds intimidating for the most part.

‘Do you know what your first word was John?’ Siger poses the question, both the Holmes men seemed to have followed his example with allowing themselves more comfort, Mycroft’s risen to fix them what looks like glasses of whiskey, a known weakness of John’s,

‘Yep, I remember because my sister used to tease me when I was a little older. We had this cat, well it was more of a stray that lived in the block of flats, but yes this cat. I was fascinated by this cat, my sister called It Dandelion, god but it was an ugly thing, anyway my first word was dandy.’ Mycroft snorts a small amount of his whisky and John shoots him a look, ‘What about this one then? Anything embarrassing?’

‘From Mycroft, lord no, it was star’ Siger grins at the memory, ‘it was summer and Violet, she developed this habit of bundling Mycroft out of bed when he woke up the second time, always at one A.M. and taking him out onto the balcony attached to our room. She’d sing him the names of the constellations in French. I think she was slightly disappointed you went for the English Myc, would have profferedétoile, all things considered.’ ‘My second word was French; I imagine it pacified her somewhat.’ Siger bobs his head in response. ‘Now his lordship, Sherlock, he caused some mischief. Didn’t speak in front of anyone until he was two, we would hear him sometimes talking to his bear or his puppy but whenever we would try, nothing. His first word to us, unsurprisingly, was no.’ It’s John’s turn to snort now, it’s so Sherlock he can hardly stand it, 

‘So he was contrary even as a child?’ he receives nods from both men in response,

‘John I wonder if I might impose on you to allow me a copy of this clip?’ John smiles at Mycroft’s request, more because he made the decision to ask and not simply perform some high tech wizardry to accomplish his means,

‘Have at it Mycroft, there are some new photographs too that I was meaning to send you, the first ones in the gallery?’ He sees Mycroft’s grin broaden when he finds them. The shots show Mina dressed in the Guinevere outfit Tammy put together, she does look awfully cute. John had wondered at buying her some dresses, she seemed quite taken with them and he didn’t want her to miss out just because he lacked any knowledge in the area, thank god for Tammy.  

The evening draws to a natural conclusion there, Siger bids John farewell with a tight handshake and a few muttered words about ensuring Mina reads books on botany before heading upstairs. Mycroft and John linger a little longer, while a car is organised and Mycroft completes the transfer of his chosen files.

They part under the portico, clasping hands and promising to be in contact tomorrow to organise something more with the family before Mina’s Grandparents return to Yorkshire.  As John climbs into the car he feels a rush of relief. The evening has been a mixed bag emotionally and he’s eager to be home. His regular reports had petered off about an hour ago but he’d checked with Anthea before leaving and she’d informed him everyone at Baker Street was now asleep.  He honestly couldn’t wait to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is finally over!


	18. Saturday is for Outings

Saturday morning started as it always did; early morning wake up, Mina not understanding the pretence of a weekend lie-in, followed by stories in John’s bed until their stomachs grumbled and he was certain their movements in the kitchen and living room wouldn’t wake Mrs. Hudson. She’d been fast asleep in John’s chair when he’d returned the previous evening, tea cup and saucer balancing precariously on the side table while the baby monitor was nestled next to her side.

 Mina had apparently slept through with no sign of illness or restlessness and it gave John some hope that he’d be able to return to work sooner rather than later. He adored his days spent with his daughter and was in no hurry to see them end but the sooner he could stop eating into his savings and relying on Mycroft the happier he would be; not to say he didn’t appreciate every moment of Mycroft’s help. John knew well enough that blood ties didn’t necessitate care or love, but he’d like to start feeling as If he had his feet beneath him again, a feeling he’d been missing with all the upheaval over recent months. 

Breakfast came next; Mina sat in her high chair paying John not one jot of attention, after being presented with the new book her Uncle Mycroft had left in the car for John to find before his return journey; the story centred on the adventures of four flower fairies; here had been a distinct winter theme when John had skimmed through the pages. John wasn’t overly informed on the topic of fairies. He remembered some the oddly muddled mutterings of his mother’s aunt on the topic but it amounted to nothing clear; however the images throughout the book were beautiful and as Mina was too young to read the fine text the illustrations were the only draw for her. She proceeded to squeal unhappily at him when he removed the book in favour of a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. He could sense a mess in the making when her first action was to run her hand over the buttered top of the bread. There was nothing for it other than to sigh lightly and ensure they had clean napkins on the table. He’d never known the true use for the pieces of material before trying to feed a fussy child.

‘Knock knock, John?’

‘Good morning Mrs. Hudson, you don’t have to knock you know, or even make the knocking noise.’

Mrs. Hudson merely tutted at his cheek while kissing Mina on her forehead. Clearly it was too early to expect a wittier come back.It had become habit for John to ensure a tea cup and saucer were on the table for Saturday breakfast after the third weekend in a row had started with an early morning visit.

‘How are we this morning little Miss? You slept so well.’

‘No, no’ Mina threw a square of her toast off her highchair tray and watched it fall to the floor with a slightly manic grin for so early in the morning. John could only hope such actions weren’t an early manifestation of predisposition to experimentation, the application of physics principles at a young age, no better to hope his daughter simply wanted to make a mess. ‘No Dada’.

‘Apparently she’s not liking toast this morning Mrs. Hudson so I’d hazard a guess at contrary’ John said. He moved to grab his daughters hand lightly as she tried to have her egg join the toast on the floor. ‘Sometimes I think we need a dog.’ It’s a wistful thought; it’s not as if there’s a great deal of free room in their flat and Mina is only going to grow and accumulate more belongings. A dog is hardly practical, even if it would cut down on his floor clean up.

‘No, Dada, No.’

‘Now, now little miss we must teach you some new words. Your poor Daddy will develop a complex if not,’ Mrs. Hudson said  Mina just cast their landlady a glance before returning her attention to her already ruined breakfast.

If anyone ever questioned why John didn’t dress her before breakfast well he’d point to occasions such as this one where food was less consumed and more used as makeshift art supplies.

 ‘Do you have any plans today John?’

John lifted his head from fixing the woman’s tea to look her over. She stood casually, enough but clutched what looked to be a newspaper clipping. ‘No Mrs. Hudson, no plans why?’

‘Well I was wondering if you and Missy here might like to join me for a trip to Kew. The newspaper says they’ve got a lovely Christmas trail on at the moment and I thought Mina might like to see the lights. I’d certainly love a trip; I haven’t been to The Gardens in so many years.’

‘Of course we’ll come with you Mrs. Hudson. Do you know how we get there? Do we need a car?’

‘Oh well I thought we could invite your nice detective friend, Mr Lestrade. He could drive us and honestly I thought he could use a nice day out after everything he’s been through recently.’

‘I’m sorry?’ John can’t help feeling confused. The last time he’d seen Greg the man had been stressed, sleep deprived and undernourished but that, John had come to understand, was just part of the police officers lifestyle. There had been no major cause for concern, except perhaps the man’s blood pressure.

‘I didn’t know if you’d seen or would have heard anything. I wanted to know if he was alright; he was always so good to Sherlock and so polite when he had to come for those drug busts. He never asked about my soothers you know.’

‘I don’t understand what you mean Mrs. Hudson, sorry, what’s happened with Greg?’

 She passes across the newspaper clipping and John skims the article.

*******

**Tragedy Strikes the Metropolitan Police Force As Two Officers Confirmed Dead**

Two officers were struck down in a raid gone wrong Thursday evening. Project Poppy, the brain child of Chief Inspector Samuel Author, has been in operation for a number of months. Casualties have been few amongst the police carrying out the operations but in the early hours of Thursday morning their collective luck ran out. Two officers were confirmed dead at the scene with a number of others were in need of urgent hospital attention.

The Daily Express has learnt the team was headed by none other than Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, of notoriety for his friendship with the fraudulent super sleuth Sherlock Holmes. The Detective Inspector was seen entering New Scotland Yard early Friday evening. Speculation is rife in the offices over the chance this latest slip up for the DI will mark the end of his career. Our sources tell us numerous officers, within his own team, are calling for his resignation.

No word yet as to the identity of the officers or the success of the raid. The Metropolitan Police Force refused to comment on any speculation surrounding the incident.

***

John read the article over twice, barely checking the urge to tear it to pieces right there at the table before excusing himself to check in with his friend. There was a time when news like this would inevitably involve his and Sherlock’s names and more often than not their faces too. He remembered wondering how the national press could so flippantly talk about the officers putting their lives on the line everyday to combat the crimes of the country, but he supposed it was because the police weren’t honoured with the same respect as soldiers. No one wanting to admit that sometimes the streets of London could be even a portion as deadly of those in active warzones.

Greg’s phone rang out while John perched on the desk in the living room. He could hear the gentle murmurings of Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, most likely sneaking Mina something entirely inappropriate in place of the breakfast he’d made this morning. As long as she didn’t leave her with chocolate smears around her lips again, he’d pretend to ignore it. A little spoiling would most likely do the little one no harm. 

‘Lestrade.’

Greg answered the phone, his voice tight with the gravely edge John had learned to expect after working a manic case.

‘Greg its John. I just saw the paper and wanted to touch base.’ 

‘John hello, I suppose it would have hit the papers today; the online ones were running it yesterday.’

‘Yeah, how’re you doing?’

‘Well a little shit all round,’ Lestrade said. There’s a deep sigh and what sounds suspiciously like a cigarette lighter clicking over the line, ‘it was Osborn and Summers by the way.’

‘Jesus Greg, I’m so sorry.’ John couldn’t help but be reminded of his time in Afganistan, as a field medic he’d been first on the scene after major disasters, sometimes he can still remember the feeling of his friend’s bodies turning cold, he knows how such memories can haunt you, especially if a person is left alone with them for too long, ‘They were both great officers.’

‘Yeah, she was just so damn young John.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry Greg, really, this is just awful.’ Definitely a cigarette John thinks as he listens to the quiet noises of his friend drawing the smoke into his lungs. He fights back his inner doctor who’s screaming at him for not nagging Greg about quitting again but he thinks that if ever the man was allowed a cigarette the death of one of his closest protégés was likely to be one. ‘What even happened Greg? The bloody tabloid rags were talking about a raid gone wrong. They’re spouting some nonsense about your division kicking you out.’

‘That’s nonsense John, you know that. They sensationalise anything they can,’ Lestrade said.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the living room with a messy Mina balanced on her hip. He cast them a quick smile, but from Mrs. Hudson’s reaction, he supposed it wasn’t reassuring enough.Pointed at the phone mouthing the detective’s name, John shot her a thumbs up while listening to Greg explain the operation and how they’d ended up in that awful position. As much as John wanted to completely cast aside the comments the paper had made, he conceded that it did indeed sound like an operation gone wrong. Someone had been sloppy in their checks and two people lost their lives. He didn’t think it sounded as if the blame should land on Greg, but as the head officer on the case, John supposed Greg would be an easy target. Plus, the business with Sherlock had left him vulnerable to attacks from all sides.  The man had gone from the silver fox of CID to one of the country’s laughing stocks, alongside John, after his former roommate’s suicide. He didn’t often feel anger towards Sherlock anymore, just a great deal of sadness, but when he saw the proof of the fallout in someone else’s life, he allowed himself a moment of annoyance with the man’s memory.  Greg ended his account with a quick description of the hospital scene. 

‘That sounds awful Greg, how’s work reacted? You’re not in any trouble are you?’ John was already thinking of which favours he'd have to call on Mycroft with in order to straighten out this mess, although remembering the furtive glances the two had been sending each other the last time they'd been together perhaps he'd need do no more than inform Mycroft of the problem. 

‘Well no, I don’t think so. I went in yesterday to see the team and catch up. Write up’s being done, but once the fatalities were reported, it got moved department. The whole team is giving statements, and it’s looking like they’re setting up for an inquest. However, it would be into individual team member actions and not my leadership. The terrible thing is, I can see them pinning it on Summers, and I don’t want that.’

‘It might be unavoidable though Greg. Are you on leave then?’

‘Yep, I’ve been signed off until Monday and then it’s for a review session. I have to give my report and statement and generally follow the rules.’

‘Alright then, look I’m going to invite you to something because Mrs. Hudson thought you might want to come and honestly I think it could be good for you but I want you to feel up to it and just, if you don’t want to I completely understand.’

‘John stop fretting, what’s the thing?’ said Greg.

‘Alright, Mrs. Hudson’s got her heart set on visiting Kew Gardens and taking Mina on the Christmas walk. I’m thinking we’ll go for the whole day and do lunch and everything but honestly you don’t have to come. You might just want to stay home with the wife or something.’

The bark of Greg’s laughter sounds distinctly bitter to John’s ear. ‘Not bloody likely, mate. I handed her the divorce papers yesterday evening and of course she’s playing the victim. I could honestly use a good distraction, so if you don’t mind me not being at my best, I’d happily hijack your family Saturday.’

‘You’re not hijacking if you’re invited, Greg. Did you honestly give her the papers?’ John asked. He’d listened to Greg hem and haw around the topic of divorce through at least three separations in the last year. He’d honestly given up hope of his mate dragging himself out of his hell pit of a marriage.

‘Yep, signed, sealed, delivered, they’re hers.’

‘Wow Greg that’s huge, if a little sudden.’ John wanted to cheer, but he thought such a reaction to the dissolution of a marriage might be “a bit not good”. Sherlock would have scoffed at the very notion of John celebrating Greg’s freedom but he wouldn’t have fooled John. The man would have been smiling to himself. Neither of them had cared for the woman on the two occasions they’d had a forced interactions.

‘They’re not sudden though, are they? It’s like I told her; this has been coming for ages. She’s cheated on me for years; neither of us has been happy.’

‘I guess not. I mean, if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.’

‘Then it’s agreed that we’re both happy because I’m bloody relieved. Life’s too short to be miserable, John. Remind me of that when the bloody witch tries to drag me through the courts.’

 ‘I’ll make sure to do that. You sure you want to come out?’ John chuckled in response to Greg’s obvious attempts at mirth.

‘Honestly I’d love the distraction John and it would be good to see you and Mina.’ John thought he heard a touch of sadness in the way Greg stated this, he should make more of an effort to include the man in events and activities, they used to spend every Thursday evening at the pub together after all. 

‘Alright then, excellent. See you in half an hour?’ John asks while checking the wall clock hanging above the coat rack, he’d moved it there once it became obvious having it on the feature wall made it a target for Sherlock once he entered a sulk.

‘Definitely, I’ll bring the juice boxes!’ Greg yells exuberantly.

Mina’s out of ear shot so he doesn’t feel too bad for calling Greg a wanker through his laughter before hanging up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and with a wonderful new beta, go and check out Burning_Up_A_Sun she's marvelous and not just because she's been teaching me about the correct appreciation of verbs or to use their correct title 'Word Porn'. 
> 
> Love it and I hope you enjoy this new, if a little shorter than normal, chapter. 
> 
> (Look see virtually no angst!)


	19. Peace Is Possible In Mayfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been nearly three months. I'm honestly so sorry everyone I know it's been far too long and I can only thank each and everyone of you that takes the time to read these updates and comment, kudos and subscribe I appreciate each and every one and they're the reason I could never just abandon this fic or this story. 
> 
> I've been stuck somewhere between a heavy workload, family drama and moving that writing has just taken a back seat and that will likely continue for at least a month while I get my life back together but honestly your feedback keep me coming back and opening the file this story is saved as in my computer. This story will get finished, there's more to come. 
> 
> I have a strong idea for this particular ark and it will take two more chapter to come to completion after that the story moves on and a new ark begins. In realist All Of Me is taking the place of world building/ back story which will provide context for the next ark. The next ark will be darker but also sweeter.  
> Thanks again and enjoy! MJ X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a big thankyou to my best friend and beta the lovely Ruby who keeps me sane and ensures every chapter I write makes at least a modicum of sense ;) I adore you Ruby! 
> 
> Oh and I'm wondering about the best way to format the continuation of the story. Should It be within the same fic or should I make a series? Let me know if you have an opinion.
> 
> OH and a final thing! This chapter has an interesting formatting choice. I couldn't decide on the best way to write out text messages so i've gone with indenting but if you, dear reader, think it looks messy I'm happy to reconsider.

When Greg was younger Christmas was his favourite time of year. No matter how much money his family may or may not have had Christmas Day was always special; it was the one day a year when you could guarantee every member of the family would be under one roof, around one table. In their family missing Christmas dinner was equal to kicking the dog or blaspheming in their mother’s presence and Greg loved it. For the first thirty years of his life he never missed a Christmas dinner or a Christmas day with his family. His mother never failed to adorn his head with a foolish tinsel halo and his father never learnt to water down his punch. Yes, Christmas for the Lestrade family meant coming together as one group to share in the warm glow of their home. That all changed for Greg when he met his wife.

His beautiful wife who for the first two years of their relationship agreed to maintain the tradition but for the third, the year Greg made Detective and the year she started having her affairs, that year she decided enough was enough. She refused to make the hour’s journey to his family home and when Greg informed her he would be going anyway, Denise had laughed in his face. She’d known it wasn’t true. Greg didn’t trust to leave her alone for longer than an hour, his mind constantly turning back to the mental image of her gym instructor pressed between her thighs and her writhing beneath him in turn. So he hadn’t gone; he’d blamed his absence on Denise’s sudden illness but something about his tone seemed to inform his mother of the deception in his excuse. She didn’t question him though; she never would.

Their absence that year had started a trend and every year Greg’s excuses became less and less tangible until he finally placed himself on the rota for working the blasted holidays every year. He had done that for the last four years and honestly he had been happier at work than he would have been at home. His wife was likely happier in his absence as well. But not this year. This year Greg had booked the holiday off, he had put to one side his plans for late night Chinese food and depressing conversations with Thompson, this year he was going home for Christmas. He had called his mother and made her promise to buy new tinsel, she had seemed surprised but quietly optimistic in the presence of his enthusiasm. When she asked if Denise would be coming for dinner Greg had said no., There had been silence for a few minutes before his mother simply said ‘good’ and they left the topic alone, his mother promising to make fresh minced pies in time for his evening arrival on Christmas Eve. His brother had called next, annoyed that Greg was promising his attendance when he had missed so many events over recent years but Greg had sworn to him that he would attend. His sister had simply sent him an email stating ‘I’m so bloody excited’ and numerous pictures of his nephews dressed as elves and snow men. Greg would admit to nobody that the sight of those three beautiful faces had brought a tear to his eye. He had missed so much throughout his marriage and it was time for that to come to an end.

He did nothing to inform his wife of his plans but when he had taken a seat at their dining room table, the divorce papers sorted neatly in front of him, he had been reminded of the overwhelming relief he had heard in his mother and brother’s tones when he had told them the woman would not be accompanying him.  He heard the front door open and close lightly. It was already eleven o’clock at night and Greg knew Denise was sneaking in from a drunken night hoping to make it to the safety of the guest room without facing him. He wasn’t having it though, enough was enough and he was worn out with all the lies and the deception. The last few weeks, his interactions with Mycroft, John, beautiful baby Mina, not to mention his family, had made him remember what it felt like to be truly happy within himself again.

 If he felt a modicum of guilt for how far things had gone with Mycroft they were quickly smothered by his wife’s bedraggled appearance. She wasn’t even bothering to hide the wadded up underwear in her coat pocket and honestly Greg’s tolerance had come to an end.

“Denise, I need you to come in here. We need to have a conversation and it needs to be now.” Greg was done waiting for this nightmare to be over, he wanted to be allowed to find and bask in the happiness and love of his friends and family and potentially the excitement of a new love.  Greg strained to hear the words his wife was muttering as she trudged back down the three stairs she had alighted between her entrance and Greg’s words.

Denise froze upon her entrance of the dining room Greg watched her scan the table top before dropping into the chair he had pulled out from the table for her earlier. He looked her over checking for signs of the level of alcohol she had consumed and realised that although she looked disgusting she wasn’t drunk; tipsy, perhaps, but nothing that would impede her judgement.

“Denise, I want a divorce. I know you have asked me before and I have always said no but honestly I’m tired of being miserable and I’m sure you are too, so let’s both agree to be happy and get ourselves out of this toxic mess.” He likely spoke too quickly but speed he decided in this matter was no bad thing. Greg liked to think the awkwardness when they shared a room was so thick you could see it.

Denise pulled the paper in front of her chair, squinting slightly at the thick document. “What would I get, are we doing this fifty: fifty?”  She asked as Greg pulled one of the pages out of the stack to present it to her. The list outlined the division his solicitor had suggested and Greg had been happy with it. Hell, Greg would have been happy with less.

“Nah, this isn’t right. I want the house. The other bullshit I don’t care. But the house I want.” His solicitor had advised that selling and dividing the profits would be the most prudent but Greg didn’t know if he honestly cared anymore.

“If the house is what you want than alright. Do you have any other problems or will the amendment to the property be enough.” Greg watched Denise shuffle in her chair, she read over the list again tapping her acrylic nails against the table top as she did so.

“What about maintenance payments? There’s no mention of them here or the pension savings.”

Greg crossed his arms lightly over his chest. He had no intention of handing over maintenance payments or his portion of their savings but he was quickly getting the impression Denise was going to drag this out until she’d bled him dry. The problem was he couldn’t let her have everything she wanted. Maintenance payments would deplete his income considerably and as for their savings, well, they were after all a pension fund and one he had contributed more to over the years than Denise. No, he could allow her the house but he wouldn’t let her run him.

“Denise you can have the house and I am willing to divide the pension fund in a way which reflects both of our deposits into it but I won’t be paying you maintenance payments and I won’t be expecting any off you. Our incomes are our own and yours have been separate from mine for the majority of our marriage. You have no right to my income and you know it.”  Greg watched his wife suck her teeth at his statement.  She slid the list back over to him and stood inelegantly from her chair.

“I have no intention of signing until I have a lawyer look them over. I want to make sure our estate is divided in a way which represents my interests, our interests. Besides there’s no rush is there? I’ve been on you for one of these for years; I can wait a little longer.” She raised an eyebrow at him, “Unless there’s some special reason you’re all of a sudden so eager. Do tell, Greg, have you found yourself a little fuck toy? Is it Donovan? She’s enough of a slut to fuck you isn’t she?”

When Greg looked back at it later he wouldn’t be able to explain his flash of anger entirely. He would be able to explain that when she called Donovan a slut he was reminded of how much of a bully she was, of all the affairs she had conducted, but he wouldn’t be able to explain why the image that filled his mind was one of Donovan after their latest mission, he eyes puffy from the tears that had spilled and the sound of her voice diminished and raw. After Sherlock died the two may have fallen out but he had never stopped respecting Sally Donovan, she was a fine officer and a wonderful woman. She had no patience and her social skills on occasion bordered Sherlock’s for inappropriateness but she didn’t deserve any of his wife’s slander.

“Fuck you Denise. You know she’s a friend and colleague nothing more. If you want to get nasty, fine, we can get nasty. Tell me who were you fucking tonight? Have you changed around again? Is he younger? Older? Fatter? Thinner?” Denise sneered at him but refused to answer. They both knew her usual haunts. There would be plenty of evidence if he needed it.

“Are you supposed to be intimidating me Greg? Because it won’t work. You’re too much of a fucking coward to scare me Gregory Lestrade.” Unlike Mycroft’s use of his name, the sound of it coming out of Denise’s mouth filled him with nothing but pain. How had they gotten to be this fucked up? How had he let it continue to the point where they hated each other this fucking much?

“Take the list to your lawyer; I know you already have one. Take it and just tell them what we’ve said. This is going to be sorted before the end of the year Denise.” He looked up at her now. “I won’t still be married to you by the start of the New Year, I will fight you and we both know I will win. Your lawyer will tell you the same thing, but you already know that. Take the list and the papers. Sign them when he tells you to.” He took the stiff cream coloured card out of his wallet and left it on the top of the stack. “This is my lawyer’s office. Have yours contact them when you’re ready to deal. I’m going to get my stuff and head to a hotel.”

Denise grabbed his arm as he made to pass her through the doorway.

“You want a fight, Greg? I can and will give you one.”

Greg shook his arm loose from her hold. He dragged the last of his suitcases from its place next to the stairs. Anything else he gave two shits about was already packed in the boot of his car. It had taken him a distressingly short time to bring together all of his belongings but it had felt cathartic to remove them from the room he had once shared with his wife, cathartic to know he was actually leaving her this time and that it would be for good.

“Goodbye Denise. If you need to talk have your lawyer call mine.”

Greg sucked in deep breaths of the crisp December air as he stood outside the closed door. He could hear something smash against a wall and imagined it was likely something she thought he would cherish or miss, a wedding picture perhaps; but all it proved for Greg was that walking out when he had, ending this when he had, not being drawn into another unending fight, had been the smartest decision he had made in potentially years.

Greg wasn’t sure quite why he put his in-car Bluetooth on when he started the car, or why the first thing he did was ring the private number he had spent the past twenty four hours memorising. It connected on the fourth ring and Greg’s car was filled with the silky tones of Mycroft’s greeting.

“Good evening Gregory. Where are you off to so late this evening?” Greg wasn’t surprised the man was watching him; he spared a short wave for the nearest CCTV camera and heard the younger man chuckle over the car’s speaker system.

“Hi Mycroft, I’m heading to a hotel.” There was a moment of silence but Greg didn’t mind it. He imagined Mycroft was still at work. There was little he could say in response to Greg’s statement in any case, they were both aware that offering his sympathies would be laughable and Mycroft didn’t strike Greg as being the type of man to simply say “ah” in response to anything.

“Are you alright?” The question as well as the quiet tone it was asked in shouldn’t have been enough to make Greg smile but none the less he felt the corners of his lips twitch. He had on the line one of the most powerful, most handsome, most amazing men he had ever met, who was concerned with Greg’s welfare.

“Yeah Mycroft, I’m alright. She’s kicking up a fuss but I’m not surprised. She’s just that sort.” Greg found himself picturing Mycroft’s pose; was he sat at his desk? Leant against it? Perhaps he stood looking over some highly manicured grounds. “Don’t suppose you know of any hotels in the area do you? Or somewhere close to work? I might just drive further in to the city.  You know, cut down on the commute“. Once again silence fell over their conversation; Greg took a left hand turn onto a ring road which would take him into the city. London at this time of night was no picnic but it also wasn’t hideous. Greg thought that he might consider cycling to work if he could find a place nearer the Yard.

“Gregory, I am going to suggest something and I want you to give it a little thought. It’s only an offer and there are no expectations, you understand.” Greg nodded before realising Mycroft couldn’t really see him and verbally confirmed his assent instead. “What I am wondering is, well, the option is available.”

Greg forced himself not to laugh at the man’s flustered voice. It would be rude for one thing as well as discouraging the other man from finishing his thought, and Greg loved to listen to him talk.

“I was thinking, perhaps, if you would like, rather than a hotel you are welcome to be a guest at the house the family holds in Mayfair. You would be within walking distance of work and the property is extensive.”

Greg thought that might be the first time he’d ever heard Mycroft sound uncertain when making a proposal. He didn’t know how he really felt about the idea of staying in Mycroft’s home though. He’d just handed his wife divorce papers and the idea of then wrapping himself in the comfort of Mycroft’s presence, perhaps even arms, made him feel a little seedy.

“I don’t know Mycroft. It feels a little odd to come straight from Denise to you.” No matter how much he knew that relationship was behind him he didn’t want to start anything, anything real and complete, with Mycroft until he was completely unattached. Both he and Mycroft deserved more than for whatever this was or could be to start out with deception.

“Ah, I should have made myself clearer. The house is currently empty. I am staying at the property you visited previously for the duration of my parents’ stay. I can arrange for a member of my staff to come and open the property but apart from that, and the cleaner that comes three times a week, the house would be yours for at least a week. Would you please consider it? I believe you would be more comfortable than at a hotel.”

Greg couldn’t honestly account for the slight stab of disappointment that ran through him at the thought of not seeing Mycroft; if he was being honest with himself he would admit that part of him, the part of him that longed to feel Mycroft’s body press him firmly into a mattress and take him apart with his teeth, tongue, hands and cock, had hoped the man would attempt to seduce him. He repressed that side though, promising to his slightly twitching member that he would bring himself off to the memory of Mycroft’s hands and voice once he was settled somewhere for the night.

“Mycroft, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Gregory, it is no imposition. If I could insist then I would but I know that’s not my place.” Mycroft’s voice held a hint of the longing Greg was forcing himself not to acknowledge. “I would be honoured if you used the property. I find myself quite fond of the image it creates in my mind.” Greg felt himself blush slightly.

“What images are those Mycroft?” The rich sound of Mycroft’s laughter filled Greg’s car. He found himself turning almost without thought onto the roads that would take him through London to Mayfair.

“Well, Gregory, they are numerous and only partly salacious. Mostly I enjoy the idea of you finding comfort in my home. I do so wish for your happiness Gregory.” Greg found himself grinning fondly, he believed Mycroft wholeheartedly and informed him thusly as well as telling him the feeling was reciprocated.

“You best give me an address Mycroft. In case you weren’t keeping track I’m getting close to North Kensington.”

“Don’t worry Gregory, I have you. Take a right at the next exit. I’m going to guide you.”

“Oooh like a sexy sat nav?” Greg felt himself flush with pleasure at the bark of laughter his comment elicited.

“Darling Gregory, I would be your guide any day. Perhaps you would enjoy taking my direction?” Mycroft asked with a tone of faux innocence. The hint of laughter was still present in his voice and Greg liked to picture him grinning down the other end of the phone.

“I like the sound of that; I’m pretty good at following orders Myc. Would you like me to?”

“I think I would be amenable Gregory. I do so enjoy your skills.”

Greg put as much depth into his voice as possible, his next statement coming up as more of a growl than anything, “You haven’t seen my skills yet Myc, you’ll know when you do.”

Mycroft chuckled in response but Greg was at least proud it sounded a little stuttered. “You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to discovering them Gregory.” They both paused, caught in their own imaginations; Greg’s taking him back to the moment they shared in Mycroft’s office, the scene continuing past the moment it had to include the DI being bent over a desk. Mycroft was the one to break the retrospective imaginings. “But for now I need you to take a left and then a sharp right. You’ll be on the right street then, stop outside the house with the forest green door. An agent will open the property for you in a few moments.” 

Greg followed his instructions turning onto a street framed by large and opulent properties that towered over his slightly beaten up Ford. He pulled to a stop behind a black SUV and waved to the man that exited the vehicle.  

“I should probably go and talk to the guy right?”

“It would be prudent, Francis will explain a little about the property and provide you with keys and the alarm code.”

“That sounds good. Thank you for this, Mycroft.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Gregory, it’s my pleasure. When you have settled for the evening would you call me again? There are a few things I believe we should discuss.” Greg promised he would while climbing out of the car towards the open front door where the agent, Francis, was waiting. Greg introduced himself and listened to the man’s explanation of the security system and an outline of the house. Greg waved him off before parking his car in the garage.

He set himself up as advised; in the back bedroom of the first floor, he called Mycroft again while searching out a wardrobe to save his suit from insurmountable wrinkles.

“So Francis just left. I like him but I have to say it would have been helpful if he’d told me where the damn wardrobe is. Is there a magic button somewhere that opens a secret door into Narnia?”

“Gregory, I have to admit I feel that comment might have drifted from your initial point.”

“You’re not wrong Mycroft. But yeah, where’s the wardrobe in this room?”

“Did you take the back bedroom as advised?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent, if you take the door to the right of the en-suite you’ll find an empty closet. You’re welcome to the entirety.” Greg goes to the door indicated and opens it to reveal a room bigger than the family bathroom at his old property. Cream walls framed dark mahogany shelves and clothing rails, all of them empty apart from a number of solid wooden hangers.

“This is amazing, Mycroft, who normally uses this room? It’s beautiful.”

“Me usually, but I’ve never used the closet you’re currently in. Mine is through the door to the left. A simple mirror of yours but with a dark green wall, similar to the covers on the bed.”

 They talk about passing thoughts while Greg processes the fact he’ll apparently be sharing Mycroft’s bed while the man isn’t here. Greg remembers waking up in Mycroft’s bedroom on the estate; he remembers the rich masculine scent that permeated the very air of the room. The smell was less pronounced here but when he lay face down on the comforter, his face pressed into the slightly indented pillows he found the remnants of the same scent. He pushed down the instance of lust in favour of revelling in both the voice and scent of the man that surrounded him. It was a comfort he hadn’t fully processed he needed after the day he’d had.

“Gregory, are you still awake?”

Greg grunts in response, his eyes having already closed and he felt the slow drift of exhaustion wash over his consciousness. Falling asleep fully dressed and above the cover was hardly ideal but Greg couldn’t be more ready for this entire week to be over and done with.

***

Greg managed an uninterrupted night of sleep revelling when he woke in the softness of the mattress that cradled his body. His morning went downhill quickly. Between dodging calls from lawyers, his wife, the media and unknown numbers, Greg resorted to the hidden box of cigarettes he kept stashed in his car before nine o’clock. The constant calls had become such a frequent feature of his morning that he almost ignored the one that came through from John while he was downing his second cup of coffee. He was glad he didn’t in the end.

It took two hours and a twenty minute negotiation about security with Mycroft for them to finally arrive at Kew. The morning was crisp and the parks nearly deserted. Mrs Hudson walked confidently through exhibits keeping up a constant commentary for the seemingly fascinated Mina. The little girl sat tucked within the confines of a fluffy white snow suit and surprisingly sturdy shoes. Greg had watched the numerous clips both John and Mycroft had of Mina walking between the tall trees of the arboretum that covered much of the sites 300 acres; however, it appeared Mycroft’s security team had other plans. Every time one of the adults made a move to take Mina from the pushchair the guards motioned not too. It took Greg an unforgivably long time to discover the reasons.

Their outing appeared to have a constant shadow in the presence of a lone photographer trailing their progress across the garden’s exterior areas. Once they moved themselves into the Orchid exhibit and the extensive conservatories the security team loosened somewhat. They moved closer to Greg, John, Mina and Mrs Hudson, finally allowed Mina the freedom to stretch her legs. She took off like a shot with John and two bodyguards watching her every move.

“How are you doing, Detective Inspector?” Mrs Hudson asked as they meandered between flower beds. For the life of him Greg couldn’t figure out why Mrs Hudson staunchly refused to use his first name. She sometimes referred to him as “the fine DI Lestrade” but never by simply Greg.

“I’m alright, Mrs Hudson, plodding along as they say.”

“John told me about your wife. He’s awfully worried about you and I can’t say I blame him. All those horrible things in the papers, Detective Inspector, I don’t mind telling you it was rather distressing to read.”

Greg placed a hand lightly on her shoulder as they walked further, he’d not missed the quaver in her voice and he felt a fresh surge of guilt for how the raid had ended. It was not only his team but also their families that bore the brunt of the pain from such events. Greg’s mother had spent over an hour sobbing down the telephone begging for him to come home so she could look after him. He was on the wrong side of forty to need that level of care from his mother but he had to admit there was something comforting in knowing the offer was still there.

Greg and Mrs Hudson both raised their heads quickly at the sharp cry that filled the near silent conservatory when Mina took a tumble over a wet paving slab. Mrs Hudson had moved forward with slightly panicked eyes before it became obvious John had it under control. He had already swept his daughter from her feet and was applying numerous kisses to the affronted palms his daughter offered up to him. Her cries were quickly replaced with laughter as John tickled her sides lightly. There was such a difference in both John and Mina’s faces that Greg felt himself momentarily stunned.

It was the laughter that did it. He realised how broad both their smiles were and how seemingly light the burden of grief seemed to be hanging over John today. Perhaps he had become more adept at hiding it, but to Greg’s eyes his friend seemed to have regained a modicum of his former nature. He was softer now, certainly, his face more worn and bearing the deep seated lines of sleep deprivation, but those aspects were no different from those he’d seen his brother-in-law display after the birth of his second child.

“He seems happy Mrs Hudson.”

He couldn’t help but grin in response to Mrs Hudson’s almost dreamy stare. She watched John and Mina interact and Greg watched as her eyes began to glimmer with unshed tears.

“I think he is D.I. Lestrade, it’s so hard for him some days and I do my best to help but really I think it’s Mina that makes him better. She’s a reason for him to be happy and to keep going rather than getting caught up in his grief. He cried so much at the start, when you first bought her home to him, he didn’t think he could do this, not without Sherlock, but look at him. He’s thrived with parenting her and just look at her. Isn’t she so different? She smiles all the time now, every morning when I go up to say hello she’s there with a smile and those few sharp teeth.”

They walked in companionable silence for a number of minutes; listening lightly to Mina’s intermittent commentary about the plants she clearly found the most interesting. John kept her out of reach of any low branches and flowers but was more than happy to kneel for ten minutes with Mina resting against his chest to watch the miniature water feature. The continued along the path, flanked as they were by two members of their security detail; once word of the photographer’s presence had spread between the three adults walking the gardens they’d consented to a more obvious security presence. Mina seemed unaffected and, dressed as they were, the security team blended almost perfectly with the small swell of tourists enjoying the winter exhibits.

Greg spotted Francis walking slightly further back and stopped momentarily. Waiting for him to catch up, he crouched down to mimic refastening his shoe lace. When he saw the two polished shoe covered feet stop just in his line of sight he turned his head to mutter quietly, “Do we know who he is?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?” Greg watched Francis, obviously uncomfortable with Greg’s gruff questioning. He didn’t like letting John and Mina out of his sight but they were currently being flanked by people he could only assume were government trained. “I can ask Mr. Holmes if it will make your life easier.”

“No, it’s alright. His name is David and we’ve had a tail on him since he exited his car near Baker Street.”  
“Is he after John?”

“Not to our knowledge; the information we’ve intercepted indicate he has set out to collect pictures of you; enjoying yourself while the nation mourns or some such rubbish.”

Greg wanted to scoff at the tabloid nature of their comment but he couldn’t help the hit to his self worth. He was a good copper and liked to think he was a good team leader but sometimes the responsibility put him on the wrong side of the public eye. He was too well known now anyway. His face had graced the newspapers too often over the last decade to truly make him feel anonymous in a crowd.

“Well, that’s bloody great. Has he cottoned on to Mina?”

“Not to our knowledge, all communication so far has concerned you and on one occasion Doctor Watson. There’s little interest in the child at this moment.”

Greg got himself out of the crouching position in a way which allowed a view of the group behind them. The reporter was nowhere in sight. His phone buzzed multiple times in his pocket, making his keys produce an almost musical sound as they shook from the force of the vibrations.

 

**MH: Gregory stop worrying you’re missing out on your day with your friends. **

**MH: The man will be taken care of shortly.**

**MH: You should find John again. Mina is missing your presence. If you’re lucky perhaps you shall be treated to her next word. I am keeping a detailed list so I shall expect your feedback.**

**MH: Try to enjoy yourself my Darling, you deserve this day.**

 Greg turned on the spot blatantly looking for the cameras. At Francis’ obvious cough he followed the man’s line of sight until he caught the slight gleam of a camera lens. He turned toward, it saluting the camera and dropping a wink for good measure. His phone vibrated once more in his hand. He cast his eye down to check the message and felt the smile on his face widen to a blatant grin.

  **MH: You are being awfully distracting today Gregory, bending down in those tight jeans moments ago. I could hardly keep my eyes off the lines of your body.**

  **GL: Are you flirting with me Mr. Holmes?**

**MH: Certainly not Detective Inspector.**

Greg deliberately raised an eyebrow at the camera putting on the most enthusiastic pout he could manage. Behind him he heard Francis smother a snort. The poor man tried to cover it with a cough but he could hardly fool Greg.

**MH: Do not pout Gregory it makes you look awfully naughty.**

  **GL: Perhaps I am awfully naughty.**

**MH: I would not like to disagree.**

 Greg felt himself grinning again and took a calculated risk with his next text.

  **GL: Would you like to find out?**

 There was radio, or text, silence for a number of minutes and Greg wondered if perhaps he had pushed too far. The flirting had been blatant, however, and he didn’t like to think he had become that out of practice.  The silence lasted for long enough that they’d moved on to the next room and rejoined John and Mrs Hudson before he felt his phone buzz again.

**MH: I would like that more than anything Gregory.**

  **GL: Patience is a virtue Mr. Holmes.**

  **MH: It is also a most effective (and sweet) form of torture my Darling. I fear I must return my attention to other matters but do try not to fret. There are always multiple lines of defence between all of you and any threat, especially Mina.**

  **GL: Thank you.**

**MH: Anytime Gregory, anytime.**

 

The next time he caught the flash of a security camera he was holding Mina, he directed her gaze up and had her wave towards the camera, seemingly obscured as it was by a large tree. Before he turned away with Mina towards a highly amused looking John, he tapped two of his fingers against his lips and raised it towards the camera in the hopes of blowing a kiss while holding Mina safely against his other side.  He felt his phone buzz moments later.

**MH: Your very actions test my patience you dear man but only in the most delicious ways**.


	20. Three Little Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a bad guy.
> 
> There's some torture. 
> 
> It's all a bit dreary. 
> 
> But there's some symmetry that made the writer very happy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! 
> 
> How are we all? It's a week before my Birthday and I bring you a new chapter. It's a little dark but that's nothing new for this fic and we're working on the expectation that everyone reading will already know standard warnings for Mina and Mycroft being an icy bastard sometimes. 
> 
> So yes I hope you're all well and happy. It's not been so long this time which is a bit of a celebration for me but this chapter is shorter so maybe that makes sense. I hope you all like it.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beautiful Beta Ruby. I could find you a million cat Gif's and it would never be enough *air kisses*

Mycroft observed through the two way mirror as his agents secured Abram Mitrović’s restraints to the floor with a bulky metal chain, never releasing his arms; the man had a rich history of violence towards law enforcement. The man, also known by his code name ‘Mr Red’, was showing the marks of Anthea’s attention across the portions of his skin visible to Mycroft’s gaze. The woman herself entered the small observation room attached to the room Mitrović was being set up in. 

“Did you get anything out of him?” 

“No, he wouldn’t answer any questions put to him in any of the languages we know he speaks.” 

The woman’s frustration was obvious. There weren’t many that would stand up under Anthea’s personal brand of questioning but Mycroft could have anticipated Mr Mitrović being one of them. Moriarty had been much the same; except instead of answering he had chanted Sherlock’s name, he had carved it into the walls and tables. Most memorable was the occasion he’d bitten into his own arm to use his own blood as ink for the walls. The hot smell of iron was what Mycroft remembered when he had entered the room the next day. 

“Did he say anything at all?” 

Anthea shifted her weight from one foot to the other, Mycroft cast a glance over her and noted twin reasons for her discomfort; something significant had been said but she was also uncomfortable with her own actions. A quick glance at their detainee showed the obvious injuries, but the way he was shifting his weight from his left side suggested damaged ribs - Anthea had gone further, provoked by Mitrović’s statements no doubt. 

“Tell me, Agent Fairchild, what did he say?” 

“Simply put, the only word he was saying was “Holmes”, like a bloody broken record until Daniel started on his family; I’ve noted it as a potential weakness in his file that his mother died last year. He started talking about the refuge where we’ve moved the children. He knew all about it; which children were there, which agents were guarding them, which of them sneak off to have a cigarette two hours in.” 

Mycroft stood stiffly beside her. They had arranged for a safe house for the women but they had judged the children to be safe if they kept them together in the city. Clearly they had been mistaken. 

“I assume…” Mycroft started but Anthea raised her hand to stop him before he began on this occasion. 

“We’re already arranging for them to be moved and unfortunately separated. We’re going to have to watch them more closely to ensure they’re not communicating with the members of Mitrović’s team still on the ground. Also worth noting I’m going to kick Seaman’s ass for smoking while on a job.” 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. 

“And that is why you cracked his ribs?” 

“Yes, I can only apologise, sir, I lost my temper.” 

Mycroft knew her past, knew he could not blame her in this situation for allowing her emotions to reign over logic. 

He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder before striding through the door connecting the observation booth and Mitrović’s feral glare. 

“Mr Mitrović. Good afternoon. Shall we have a conversation now?” 

*** 

They sat for an hour in silence, Mycroft deducing everything he could about the man sitting opposite him. 

Single father; two children both remained in Serbia when he left. Russian mother, Serbian father, he works jobs in Russia but never Serbia, homes in both countries. 

“Tell me about your children, Abram? What is it, boy and girl? No, no, two girls. Separate mothers; you loved the first, not the second. Why was that, I wonder?” 

Mycroft noted how Mitrović’s muscles bulged as he tested the strength of his bindings, jerking the chain tight causing an audible rattle. 

Mycroft threw Mitrović a smirk expecting it to enrage the man further. Mycroft was waiting for the snap, the breakdown of the man’s higher functions and the release of the violent bloodlust he knew lay within. But it did not materialize. Rather, the man slumped backwards into the chair, his rigid posture uncoiling as he did so. 

“I loved Narla more because she was no whore; the same cannot be said of the second.” 

Mitrović answered quietly, the man’s voice lighter than Mycroft had anticipated, his accent highly prominent. 

“What happened to them? The mothers?” 

“They were killed” 

“By you?” 

Mitrović licked his lips before biting the bottom one hard. 

“Did you kill them, Mr Mitrović?” 

“Not the first, no, she was taken from me by a nasty strain of syphilis. The second however, perhaps, I gave her a job, certainly.” 

“A job?” 

“Like I said, Mr Holmes, the woman was a whore, I have a great deal of use for whores in my line of work.” 

Mycroft repressed his initial reaction, he wanted to recoil, to express his disgust at the man’s words, but Mycroft knew this was the response the man wanted. 

“You mention your line of work, Mr Mitrović. Tell me, what are you doing in the United Kingdom?” 

“I am here on a mixture of business and pleasure. Business being activities which produce my income and pleasure being whatever I can have your countries pretty little bitches do for me.” 

“Well, as pleasant as that sounds I think both are now out of the question, wouldn’t you agree?” Mycroft allowed both the sarcasm and venomous anger that filled him to infuse his tone. It might have been a mistake, he might have been passing the man a modicum of power, but he was aware they were surrounded on near enough all sides by heavily armed agents., That remained a comforting thought when Mitrović strained forwards once more. 

“Would you like to know what we’re going to talk about Mr Holmes?” He said it quietly, as if to suggest what came next was some great secret. Mitrović was intelligent and experienced enough to know that every word spoken was being recorded. 

Mycroft drew closer to the man and matched his volume. “Enlighten me, Mr Mitrović, what are we going to talk about?”

Mycroft leant back. They’d been so close in that moment that Mycroft had been able to smell the halitosis lingering on his breath. “I’m going to tell you a story, Mr Holmes., Part of this story you know but part of it, oh, part of it is a mystery, Mr Holmes.” 

Mycroft closed the file in front of him, letting Mitrović take the lead and spreading his arms to indicate he was ready for the man to begin his tale. 

“The question is where to begin.” 

“Perhaps at the beginning, Mr Mitrović” Mycroft mirrored Mitrović’s sneer of disdain with one of his own. 

“Quite right, Mr Holmes., So, the beginning. Once upon a time…” 

Mycroft couldn’t hold back his scoff of disbelief. 

“Do you not like fairy tales, Mr Holmes?” 

“I prefer my stories with a little more fact and a little less florish, Mr Mitrović.” Mycroft stated sharply. 

Mitrović clicked his tongue disapprovingly. 

“Such a shame, your brother liked a good fairly tale, didn’t he Mr Holmes? Although perhaps you tell yourself you’re less fanciful than him. Am I right?”   
Mycroft sniffed derisively. “If you are hoping to get a rise out of me, Mr Mitrović, you are going about it the wrong way.” 

“I don’t want a rise out of you, Mr Holmes, I want you to listen to my story and I want you to listen to it my way. Just like your brother listened to his, he did listen so well sometimes, Mr Holmes. Moriarty was awfully complimentary when your brother played along.” 

Mycroft repressed the rage he felt burning within him., Breaking the man’s nose would be considered a bad move in many people’s books. 

“Why don’t you tell me about Moriarty?” 

“Because I WANT TO TELL YOU THE STORY.” The sound of the chains rattling filled the room once more. “Just listen.” Mitrović dragged the ‘s’ in the last word out into a hiss. The tilt of his head reminded Mycroft vividly of Moriarty, it was the tilt of the head and the wide eyes that truly bought the thought to the forefront of his mind. 

“I am listening, Mr Mitrović, please continue.” 

“Where was I, then.” 

Mitrović spun a tale before Mycroft’s eyes detailing the meteoric rise of an academic man’s son, Mycroft thought for a moment that the man was detailing Mycroft’s own life but the details were off; his family had never lived in Ireland. Mitrović continued weaving; his words lulling Mycroft slightly until he leant, forward his elbows braced on the table. 

“This young man was a born villain, you see; serpentine in his cunning and seemingly an arachnid in his production of traps he wove a web to enslave those that would overthrow his growing empire. By seventeen he had committed his first murder; poisoned a young man before a swimming outing,” Mitrović said.   
Mycroft’s brain roared Moriarty’s name. His entire team had spent years trying to collate this amount of data about the crime lord’s upbringing, anything to find the weaknesses that would bring them onto the same level of play. 

“You never knew this did you; you can see the similarities between this little devil and your own sweet prince. They grew up with such similar worlds. They were the same, really,” Mitrović said with yet another smirk. The man had clearly identified Sherlock as a point of weakness but Mycroft had been through years of repressing his brotherly instincts in the face of criminals. It worked to the point where many believed they despised each other. Perhaps Mitrović believed his brother’s recent demise would have created rawness to insults relating to him. 

“And the pair were drawn together from that young age; your darling brother taking a shocking level of interest in the demise of little Carl. He caught Moriarty’s eye, you know, that year. He was a threat, if a small one.” This was something Mycroft knew; Moriarty had been honest enough about his stalking, the tracking of his brother’s lifetime. “Moriarty watched him, you know, through school, university; through the drugs and whoring, he watched and he observed. The drugs kept him, your brother, docile, you know. They allowed Moriarty to expand his empire right under the impressive noses of the Holmes brothers, distracted as they were with family matters,” Mitrović said. “You missed his expansion; missed his influence within these very halls.” 

“We caught him eventually, brought him down,” Mycroft said, his tone biting. 

“Yes you did, but not before Sherlock made himself more interesting., He got clean, removed the chemicals that were tainting him. He became pure to the boss’ eyes. Devoid of the human condition your brother became fascinating and therefore dangerous. But the boss, you see, he rather liked danger, a hint of spice in his dull little life. Your brother was that spice. Until he got dulled and, therefore, dull until he became a vigilante; a paragon of goodness, a hero.” Mitrović snarled around the word hero before he spat on the floor. Mycroft watched the globule of spit land with disinterest. Unlike Moriarty’s upbringing, nothing about these tales was new. Sherlock had snarked about the man often enough over the months preceding his death for these stories to feel repetitive to Mycroft. 

“Mr Mitrović, you’re wasting my time, I already know about your boss’ obsession and about my brother’s descent into heroism, if you can’t be interesting I’m sure Interpol will have more to say to you than I do.” 

“You think I’m not interesting?”

“I’m afraid you’re not.” 

“Well alright, if you’re impatient, we’ll miss out the love story and jump straight to the confrontation. The hero and the villain stand on a roof. They look out over London, seemingly insignificant to the sprawling metropolis, and they discuss their final problem. Two brilliant minds, two players, one bored and the other terrified, the great game and a final solution.” 

Mitrović wet his lips, his eyes alight with something Mycroft thought to be akin to mischief. The man was getting off on this, rubbing Mycroft’s face in his brother’s suicide. 

“You’ve wondered, haven’t you, about what they said. You’ve watched the moment over and over again, captured on your little cameras. But you still don’t know what was said. You don’t know why he jumped. Tell me, Mr Holmes, does it haunt you?” Mitrović asked. “I bet it does. Would you like to know?” 

“Why don’t you just tell me, you’re clearly salivating at the prospect,” Mycroft pointed to Mitrović’s eyes; clearly dilated, a pulse point that he imagined was likely racing and the man’s shifting hips; unable to maintain his previously rigid posture. 

Mitrović shrugged, not bothering the hide the pleasure he was taking from the conversation. 

“You’ll forgive me my excitement. You see Moriarty was frustrated., Your brother, the Reichenbach hero, proved to be ordinary. He was dull, and to Moriarty that’s the biggest sin of all.” 

“My brother could hardly be called ordinary.” 

“Ah but to Moriarty he was and for that he deserved to be punished. We should all atone for our sins, Mycroft. Sherlock’s atonement was fitting really. His heart made him dull and so his heart proved to be the incentive; three bullets for three people, all dead unless Sherlock jumped. But not just any people. Oh no. Moriarty knew what Sherlock would die for. He would die for love. All heroes do.The three people Sherlock loved most. All of them would die. Unless he jumped. Three bullets, three killers and one way to stop them. He had no choice. He’s our tragic hero, you see?” 

“Who were the three?” 

“I don’t know if you deserve to know that.” 

“I can figure it out.”   
Mycroft pushed away from the table., He already knew two of the three., 221b Baker Street was about to become the most secure location in the country. 

“Oh but Mr Holmes, that’s not how this story ends. Oh no, it ends with three words. I like the symmetry, three gun men, three bullets and now three words. They’ll bring you to your knees, you know.” 

“I highly doubt that, Mr Mitrovic.” 

“You shouldn’t. We know things in the network.” 

“What things are those?” 

“There’s something travelling from the East killing off member’s of our syndicate. Dismantling as it goes. We want you to make this to stop.” 

Mycroft knew well enough to play along. Something was dismantling Moriarty’s network. His team were aware of combat in areas but they had yet to make the connection; The work he had seen was amateurish, the results messy; whoever was making these moves weren’t trained professionals. 

“And why would I do that?” 

“Because, Mr Holmes, the end of this story isn’t your brother, oh no, it’s you. We see you now, No longer the ice-man are you?” Mitrović mocked.

Mycroft stiffened in response. 

“We’ll bring you down with love too, just like Sherlock; except for you we have more bullets. Count them with me won’t you?” Mitrović raised his hands as If in surrender. He counted off with his fingers, curling inwards as he said the names. “John Watson and Louise Hudson, for your brother naturally.” Mitrović curled two fingers. “Siger and Violet Holmes, much closer to Mummy and Daddy aren’t you? I wonder why that is.” Two more fingers. “Gregory Lestrade, oh you were naughty with the married police man weren’t you Mr Holmes.” Another finger, one closed fist., The prisoner waggled the ones remaining, mocking him. “Agent Annette Fairchild, also known as Anthea, although that bitch has earned a place on my list regardless.” Mitrović stretched his jaw, drawing Mycroft’s eye to the purpling bruise running along its edge. The man brought another finger down. 

“If you think by threatening my family and friends you will force my hand you’re going to find yourself disappointed.” 

Every person on that list, excluding Anthea, already had a security detail assigned to them and that would only increase. 

“I don’t think it disappoints me Mr Holmes but let me say this. We know the location of every person on that list at this very moment. You may think you have them covered; your mother is amongst friends, your father is safely within your fortress of a home and your brother’s three are walking through the grounds of Kew Gardens admiring the fake snow., They are of course surrounded by an incredible amount of security, more than they realise, I’m sure. I see I finally have your attention, Mr Holmes.” Mitrović said jostling his chains to wave the hand with fingers still raised in Mycroft’s direction. “There’s one more name on your list isn’t there, Mr Holmes, and it’s a brand new name as well. Like I said Mr Holmes, we’ll bring you down with three little words. “ 

He meant Mina, Mycroft realised. His mind flickered through the many images he had of his niece saved in its depths but the one that came screaming to the fore was the image Gregory had passed him on that first day. The image of the scared little girl who wouldn’t talk, who didn’t smile, who couldn’t handle the company of strange men without clinging to John like a life line. 

He wasn’t truly aware of moving, of knocking the metal chair out from under the prisoner, of using every ounce of his strength while connecting his fist with the man’s face. He became aware of it when strong arms wrapped around his chest heaving him backwards. When he watched Anthea slam the man’s face into the table blood splattering her cream blouse. The blood was vibrant against the plain block colour of the blouse. He watched as the woman drew her weapon, holding it to their prisoner’s forehead. 

“Tell us what you know!” 

The ringing in his ears dulled to allow the noise of his agent’s to penetrate his consciousness. Mycroft looked down to where he was still being restrained by David. The smears of blood that decorated his battered knuckles darkened as the blood dried. He had lost control. All it had taken was the image of his niece, traumatised by monsters like the man in front of him, and he had snapped. This was a weakness he shouldn’t have exposed, one that he should have been aware of.

Mycroft watched his mind still floating in something akin to limbo as Mitrović spat a mouthful of blood in Anthea’s direction. 

“Like I said Mr Holmes, we’ll bring your world down with three little words because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to keep her safe. Three little words Mr Holmes; Mina Louise Holmes.” 

Mycroft stood stunned while Anthea reacted on his behalf, she span her weapon and held the barrel to pistol whip the side of the head of the grinning behemoths head. Mitrović sank into unconsciousness, curled on the floor still shackled.


	21. Two Men and a Mina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the storm there's a great deal of talking and just a little banter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! 
> 
> It's been less than a week! What is this madness! Here's a slightly longer chapter which is mostly dialogue but it's rather nice to have a little calm before the explosion of drama which the next chapter is turning into. 
> 
> Some of you may have noticed this is the penultimate chapter of this fic *Insert shocked face* but don't worry because i'll be figuring out AO3's magic and turning this into a lovely series for the second arc so at the relevant time go and subscribe to that if you want to keep up with John, Mina, Mystrade and a certain consulting detective who's yet to make an appearance outside of a dream *le sigh* 
> 
> All praise, cat gifs and pictures of Paul McGann to my beautiful Beta Ruby who helps me maintain some semblance of sanity and bolsters my poor grammatical knowledge and poor concentration with phrases like; 'You've said that word 20 times in this chapter alone, pick a new word.' Any mistakes that remain are my own and I humbly ask your forgiveness for them dear readers. 
> 
> Adieu for now, enjoy the calm before the storm.

Chp 21.

“Mina, poppet, do you want any more of this doughnut?” Mrs Hudson offered the treat to Mina where she sat atop Greg’s shoulders. 

Mina moved to grab the treat from Mrs Hudson’s outstretched hand. Thick sugar crystals fell like snowflakes from the pastry into Greg’s hair as their little group took another turn around the market which filled the final part of Kew Garden’s Winter Wonderland trail. John refused to fret over the amount of processed sugar his daughter had ingested over the day. He winced in sympathy when her sticky hands descended into Greg’s hair to pull it sharply. 

“Sweetie, don’t pull Uncle Greg’s hair like that, it’s not nice.” He forced himself not to smile at the devilish grin he got in response. 

Mina was sweet as anything on a good day but even then she tended to drift through moods rapidly. Today was no exception: after taking a small tumble she’d been clingy as a limpet, which was quickly followed by a period of thirty minutes where she wove through strangers legs fast enough for John to lose track of her twice. She returned flung over the shoulder of one of their protection officers who gave Greg a slight glare before handing the struggling Mina over to John. Quite how Greg was responsible for his daughter’s ability to misbehave John wasn’t sure, but the look had reminded him poignantly of Sherlock and he shot Greg a slightly grim smile. The man interpreted it correctly, judging by the clap on the shoulder John received moments later. 

They wandered aimlessly for a while longer before Mrs Hudson drifted to look at Christmas gifts and Greg started rolling his shoulders in a way John interpreted as them getting tired. Mina remained small for her age but all the same Greg had been carrying her for near enough an hour, hardly comfortable for anyone let alone a man working the hours Greg Lestrade did. 

“Okay little Miss, time to give Uncle Greg a rest, come have a cuddle with Daddy.”

Dutifully Mina stretched down towards him and with a slight crouch from Greg Mina was transferred to John’s hip. She snuggled into his side, ending up with her loose curls tucked under his chin, one hand wrapped tightly in his scarf and the other curled in front of her mouth. John felt the hand moving and could picture her running her thumb lightly across her bottom lip just as she did before falling asleep each evening. He had wondered, on the first few occasions that he had noticed it, right in the middle of their more melancholy initial weeks, why she would do this so religiously. It was not that self soothing was so unusual for children Mina’s age, it was more that at that point anything John deemed to be stifling her making noise put him on edge. Now he accepted it as one of her quirks; something unconscious she did to make herself happy or calm and John would support any and every one of those. Her GP had informed him, with good humour, that it was possible he was over analysing the behaviour of his eighteen month old but he refused to see it that way. 

“Looks like she’s falling asleep, do you want me to find the pushchair?” Greg asked as he peered down at Mina where she was snuggling more deeply into the thick material of John’s winter coat and scarf. 

“Nah, I’ll be alright for a minute. I’ve missed our hugs today, far too much excitement for cuddles with Daddy, though I can’t blame her. She’s like her father, always wanting to get into everything,” John said. 

Greg grinned in response before pointing out an empty bench not far from them. They could wait it out while Mrs Hudson shopped to her heart’s content. John had already handed off his shopping to one of the agents after a great deal of furrowed brows had been exchanged between himself and Francis, the new head of Mina’s detail. He couldn’t get used to their presence but had to admit not having to cart around a pushchair and Christmas shopping was a nice pay off for the weirdness factor. 

“Once she’s conked out I want to ask your advice about something,” Greg said as they sat. 

John ducked his head to watch Mina fighting to keep her eyes open. 

“Give it five minutes and I’m all yours.” 

They waited in silence while John stroked Mina’s back; her breath evening out as she lost her struggle with consciousness. 

“Alright, I think we’re in the all clear but no loud noises for the next ten minutes,” John said. 

Both men grinned down at the curled bundle his daughter made against his chest. John knew that if asked right this moment he would struggle to think of a time he had been happier than this. That was not to say that he couldn’t think of a reality he would be happier, with Sherlock beside him instead of Greg, the two of the close together; Sherlock’s arm wrapped around him and Mina forming another layer of their little family.

“What’s up, Greg?” John asked.

“Alright, this might be a little awkward but I don’t really know anyone else that talking about this subject with would be alright with so just bear with me okay?” Greg said. 

John grinned in response bobbing his head in a nod.

“Alright, so let me first say that my marriage for the last few years has been somewhat…” Greg seemed to be struggling for the word so John filled in.

“Farcical.” 

“Alright, a little on the posh side for what I would go with but it works. So yes, it’s been a bit of a joke and I’ve not been happy. I think everyone knows that, even me.” 

Again John nodded in response. 

“So, you know after Sherlock, I just ended up doing some thinking about what made me happy and what didn’t and how I should be happy, you know,” Greg carried on; waving his arms in a display John was sure had many passersby looking for the aeroplane the fool was trying to guide in. 

“So you did some thinking about what would make you happy, alright, what decision did you make?” John tried not to sound patronising, he wasn’t certain he succeeded in it. 

“So it’s like this, I’ve never been straight; I know that, I’ve dated blokes plenty and it’s great. Some of my best relationships were with blokes. I mean most of them were very short but they were excellent and the sex- John, the sex was great and, look, it all comes down to this.” 

“For God sake Greg spit it out,” John said, snapping his fingers slightly at his friend to get him to move along. Greg had been known to circle around a point for half an hour while they shared a pint before.

“I think I’m dating Mycroft,” Greg blurted out.

“Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes?” John asked, trying to keep his grin under wraps but as Greg started to look indignant John was forced to cover a snort of laughter with a sneeze. 

“Yes, do you know more Mycrofts?” Greg said, almost haughtily John thought. 

“No, but still I wanted to check. Would be a little awkward if I just blurted it out in front of him and he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Alright, so you’re dating Mycroft, what about it?” John asked. Greg looked a little gob smacked, he sat there simply staring at John for long enough to freak him out, “Greg, what?”

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“What; you and Mycroft?” John asked. At Greg’s awkward nod John found himself laughing lightly. “No Greg of course I don’t. You’re like my best mate and he’s basically my brother in law. Realistically if you make each other happy I couldn’t not be glad.” Greg still looked disbelieving. “You both deserve some serious joy in your lives, especially after the last year. If you’ve found just that together then I think it’s wonderful. Congratulations mate, seriously.” 

“But I’m still married.” 

“Please. Greg, your marriage became a bit of a joke the moment your wife slept with the twenty year old philosophy student for the third time.” 

John almost felt bad for the man when he saw Greg stifle a wince; he would have if he didn’t think the man was more embarrassed than upset. He had always taken that stupid woman back and John hoped he would break that cycle with Mycroft and never look back, because at least Mycroft gave a fuck. 

John let Greg digest what was apparently a surprising reaction and contented himself with looking over what part of the grounds he could still see. This far out from the city a scattering of stars were visible. 

Mina snuffled slightly in her sleep, burrowing closer to John until her face was obscured entirely from view; she still slept best when she fell asleep like this. Something about the closeness seemed to sooth that part of her John knew still worried he would disappear and she would be left alone again. He saw it every time he collected her from a stay at Mrs Hudson’s and felt it every time she clung to his jumper or hand when they went to the kid’s club at the White Rabbit. She was growing steadily more confident around others, in particular other children; she hadn’t hesitated before reclaiming a snatched toy from a boy at least six months her senior. Granted, John would have preferred she do so without smacking the child on the head with said toy in retaliation and her chanting “no” repeatedly, but progress was always something to be celebrated. 

She sulked rarely, still young enough to be distracted by John’s funny faces or voices, but he could already see the development of a Sherlockian attitude towards boredom developing and he was at a loss as to how to curtail it. He had never managed it with Sherlock, how he could be expected to with a younger Holmes was beyond him most days. He would just have to ensure his daughter had no access to spray paint. The smiley face still existed, as did the bullet holes, but John would rather not have more Holmesian artwork scrawled beside it. Not to say he wasn’t proud any time Mina applied herself creatively: already the fridge door was covered in scraps of paper adorned with scribbles and an ever increasing collection of glitter (thanks Auntie Tammy) that John had decided would be his concession. As long as Mina (and Tammy) kept her artwork on pieces of paper he would cover every available surface of 221 with them. Already Mrs Hudson had pinched her favourite pieces to grace her own kitchen. That was unlikely to stop, he thought. Perhaps Greg could use some artwork to cheer up his office; the entire of NSY was rather drab. 

“Have you ever felt like your life was a dream, John?” 

No John thought. The problem for him was keeping his real life out of his dreamscape. 

John can feel his blood pounding through his body; the combination of adrenaline and fear making him push his body past the wall he’d hit minutes ago. He has to push through though, people are relying on him. People are dying and he can’t reach them. God, they’re so far away! He keeps running, his feet giving out under him but he recovers quickly, using the force of his push off the ground to get him moving again. The weight of his pack across his back is making it hard for him to breath. He’s not getting enough oxygen, in this heat he could pass out easily, he knows he needs water but they’re in the middle of nowhere and water’s just become one of their most valuable possessions. There’s blood everywhere. John falls on his knees before a solider he doesn’t recognise, they’d been paired with another brigade today and he doesn’t know all of them. He finds a pulse but it’s faint and the man is barely breathing. The body armour is thick and kept the bullet from penetrating the man’s chest but when John rolls him on his side he notices the spreading red across his shoulder. He’s still running on adrenaline, his own breathing slightly laboured as he pulls the medic pack from his back. 

“We need air support!” 

“It’s on route Cap but…” John looks up in time to see the bullet hit Abdul in the neck. The wound is a mess; he can see that right off. They’d worked together for months. John had been teaching him English. Abdul had been teaching him to cook and now he’s lying there breathing out and John can’t help him because in their current situation Abdul is dead and he knows it, but the unknown soldier beneath him is breathing, be it shallowly, and John might still have a chance to save him, to save someone but the bullets are starting up again and John is forced to cover the dying soldier’s body with his own., His face is close enough now that he can see the man’s eyes and they’re glassy. The bastard’s bleeding out too fast and there’s nothing John can do. They’re under fire, there’s no let up and people are dropping all around him. They need cover. They need to get out of these bullets. 

He hears them before he sees them. From his position on the ground his sight is near useless but the heavy hum, the patter of high frequency artillery raining down from up above; the sound of salvation. 

“John, you alright? You’ve gone pale.” 

John was bought back to reality by a hand on his shoulder, warm even through his jacket and the solid weight of Mina against his chest grounded him even more. Coming back could sometimes feel like waking up, sometimes it was like being dragged through glass but more often it was like this, like being clear again after wading through fog. Coming up to breath after losing control of how deep you’d sunk. 

“Yeah, sorry Greg. I got lost in my own head there. What was the question?” 

“I asked if you ever feel as if you’re living in a dream.” Greg asked, not unkindly, John didn’t think Greg could do anything unkindly, not truly. It’s potentially why Sherlock had sometimes grown frustrated with him.

“Nah man, I have the opposite problem really. I like my world to feel realistic. I like to see the flaws. That’s not to say I don’t have fantasy moments though.” John cringed when he realised quite how the word fantasy could be interpreted.

“Oh yeah? What are those then?” 

“I dunno; most of them involve Sherlock in some way.”

“Wow, hold up, I don’t need a view into your depraved sexual fantasies thanks. I have enough of my own.”

Greg attempted an eyebrow waggle. He failed. John didn’t really know how to react. He started laughing, a deep, near-choking belly laugh that jostled Mina enough for her to stir in her slumber. He was mostly laughing at how ridiculous Greg looked attempting to move his eyebrows independently but also at the sheer absurdity of John confessing his fantasies involved his dead roommate and Greg making some awkward joke fast enough to be called instinctual. 

“Seriously Greg, I make a confession and you make a joke.” 

“I didn’t want it to be awkward.” 

John raised an eyebrow. He had control of the sarcastic single eyebrow raise down, thank you very much. 

“Oh come on John, you never talk about him. I dunno I didn’t want you to feel like you had to because it led you into it. I swear I didn’t mean to.” 

“Nah Greg, it’s alright, I don’t mind.” They’d quietened again, the pair of them looking out across the near blackness of the gardens. “You’re right. I don’t talk about him much, but it’s because I don’t know what to say.” 

“I think we all feel like that mate.” 

“Yeah I know, but I don’t think it’s healthy. What about Mina? She’s going to have questions when she grows up and what am I going to say: ‘Sorry, sweetie, your real daddy is dead and none of us know who your mum is. Also none of us speak about your dad because it’s bloody painful because some of us loved him and never got to say it.’” 

“John.” 

“Nope, because it gets better, Greg, because I didn’t say anything, not because I didn’t know how I felt. I bloody knew alright. I knew I loved him, but I repressed it because I was ashamed of being bisexual. I was ashamed because my wanker of a dad was a homophobe and my mother was no better and I had to watch my sister go through that shit and come out the other side a mess of an alcoholic.” 

He paused when Mina whimpered against him, cutting himself off mid rant. While stroking her back again he tried to sooth himself as well. It was easy to lose himself in confessions but Greg didn’t need any of this. He’d been in the middle of raid mere days ago, he had lost friends, and here John was complaining about his family. God he was ungrateful. Just like his mother always said. 

“Sorry man, you don’t need any of this shit.” 

“Don’t you dare apologise, John.”

“What?” 

“Don’t you dare apologise, if you even try I swear I will punch you in the nose.”  
They both looked down at Mina. Cradled as she was, she had actually managed to work her thumb between her lips this time, she lay sucking it quietly. 

“Alright, so I’d hold back on punching you until you passed the baby off, but John, don’t be sorry. This is good. You should be talking about this. I struggled with accepting myself in my twenties, it was hard then but I image it must be ten times harder when you’re pushing forty.” 

John shifted a shoulder in a vague shrugging motion. 

“I dunno, I don’t think about it much Greg. As dramatic as that just sounded. I don’t think it really matters too much to me right now. I’m not going to be dating for a while.” John nodded down to his daughter. 

“Yeah but eventually,” Greg let the thought drop out there.

John wasn’t too eager to keep running with it. He’d rather not drag up shit with his parents in the middle of a public Christmas fair. He allowed himself to be distracted by two children fighting off to the side of them. The girl looked a little similar to Harry when she was eight, it was the braces John thought; the pair of them seemed to be fighting over a cinnamon swirl. The girl looked set to win. She was bigger and the scrap of a boy looked like he might just be fighting for something to do. John couldn’t say he thought the kid deserved to win with that attitude. 

“Am I allowed to ask questions, John, or are we leaving the topic of Sherlock alone? Either answer is fine.”

“Feel free to ask Greg, I just don’t want to talk about my folks.” 

“Alright, first question. When did you realise you loved him?” 

“I realised at the pool. I think I feel in love with him earlier but I knew then. In that moment when I thought we were going to die the last thing I wanted to do was lie to myself.” 

“Okay, so why didn’t you tell him?” 

“Shame, guilt, fear of rejection. Sherlock was a damn hard man to read, Greg. For the most part I think he was ignorant to my feelings, and if not, if he knew. He never made a move so I guess that says something, doesn’t it.” 

“Maybe all it says was that he was scared too John, the man hadn’t dated anyone seriously since university and the two dates I know he went on burnt bright for the grand total of an hour. Sherlock ditched one bloke at a bar, climbed out a bloody window, to come and join us at a crime scene.” 

John thought back to that first dinner at Angelo’s, about Sherlock running out of the restaurant. John couldn’t think of a circumstance where he wouldn’t have followed him. Maybe it was some form of test. Only the people who accepted and appreciated the work were allowed in Sherlock’s little world. Perhaps if that man, Sherlock’s date (John did his best to squash the wave of jealousy the attacked his brain), if that man had just followed him, had taken some initiative and chased after Sherlock, maybe he would never have met John, never needed a flat mate and then, where would John be? Sherlock had changed his entire life. He had made it whole. John didn’t want to imagine a world where that meeting never took place. If he was honest with himself he didn’t know if he would have lasted another month in that dingy bedsit without finally putting a bullet through his brain. 

“He said he was married to his work; maybe he just saw no point in dating. It’s not for everyone.” 

The pity was clear in Greg’s eyes. 

“John, you know that’s not true, Sherlock liked to walk around declaring himself above it all but honestly John, I’d never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you. Neither had Mycroft for what it’s worth and what that man hadn’t seen over CCTV doesn’t bear thinking about mate. He fucking orbited you. I mean you were just as bad at a crime scene but, the pair of you; it was like you were intertwined sometimes. Mycroft said once that it was like watching two fools learn to dance. You were making the same steps but you always a little out of sync.” 

“I don’t want to think like that Greg; like we could have had the whole thing if only our timing had been right.” 

“You might not want to John but I think it’s true. I understand why you couldn’t, I do, but I don’t want you fooling yourself into thinking it was some sort of unrequited thing,” Greg sighed. “I came so close to sitting down with you at one point and telling you to either pull it together or let Sherlock go. I swear, every time you went on a date it was like there was a swarm of bees in the man’s head. He would storm around the office demanding a case and a damn good one too. He was always looking for a reason to call you, to prove he needed you, needed you more than whoever it was with you were out with. I’d find him a case or Mycroft would.

“At the start I would tell him not to call you, you know, I figured you wouldn’t want to be interrupted, but that just made him worse. It was like this itch to him in the end, he was strung out without you there in that moment. So I’d crack and yell at him to get you here and the second you said you were on route it was like his entire body relaxed; went loose as cooked spaghetti sometimes. It was worrying, like you were a new drug, but I think that’s what love can be like sometimes; especially if you’re as intense a person as Sherlock.”

“He always had the worst timing,” John said, remembering his last date with Sarah; they’d been kissing on her sofa, it had been going well and John was feeling confident the condom he’d slipped in his wallet had been anything but presumptive when his phone had started buzzing across the table. He’d pulled away initially, but not far and the second it stopped he had found it easy enough to drop back into his kissing mind set, but after the forth buzz his curiosity had won out. What followed was ten minutes of back and forth texting. Sarah removing their glasses of wine without him realising, and when he finally did look up he found her smiling sadly holding his jacket for him. He took that as a hint but also knew that if he left then he wouldn’t get another chance with her. He still didn’t regret leaving. Sarah was a wonderful woman but they hadn’t been right for each other and he shouldn’t have been trying to fool himself.

“Why’d you always come running then? If the timing was always so bad.” 

John thought about making the same excuses he always had; Sherlock needed him, he would only end up getting hurt and John would have to patch him up, John was a medical expert and that was helpful on murder cases. But no, if he was being honest then none of those were the real reason. 

“Because an evening with him, any evening, was always better than anything I could be doing with someone else. An evening chasing a criminal, solving crimes, an evening of running through the dirty alleys of London would beat anything I could possibly dream up to do with a date.” 

John turned when he felt a hand on the shoulder furthest from Greg; Mrs Hudson leant over smiling down at Mina sleeping soundly. 

“Oh isn’t she a little dear. It’s been a long day for her.” 

“It has, maybe we should call it a night if you’re done, Mrs Hudson?” 

“Oh yes love, I’ve got everything sorted. Should we get the pushchair?” 

“That would be helpful, yes.” All three of them looked for the nearest security team member they could find. Someone must have noticed because a minute later Mina was strapped in; John’s scarf still in hand as her grip bordered on super human sometimes. Mrs Hudson walked in front of them with the pushchair and two agents on either side, each of them carrying half her rather extensive shopping. 

“What about you and Mycroft then? How’d that happen?” 

“Oh, we’ve been having coffees together for ages. I guess some point over that period of time it just became a bit more. Very slow burn, you know.” 

“So these coffees, they weren’t dates?” 

“Oh no, we haven’t done that yet.” 

“You haven’t been on a date?” 

“Nope.” 

“But you think you’re dating?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re confident in this even though you have never been on a date.” 

“Alright so maybe dating is the wrong word.” 

“So what’s the right word?” 

“I don’t really know.” 

“Alright, what do you do?” 

“When?” 

“When you’re together.” 

“Before it was all very civilised; tea, lunch, obnoxious restaurants and the like. Typical Mycroft.” 

“Right, what about now?” 

“Now it’s pretty much him swooping in and saving me, dragging me off somewhere, an insanely intense snog followed by him saving me again, me staying in his house, more snogging and a slightly kinky hand-job. Me getting a divorce and now I’m living in his house, in his room, but he isn’t there. So you know, find a word for that and that’s the one we’ll go with.” Greg stopped when he realised John was no longer beside him. Instead John was a foot behind him doubled over in mirth. “Oh come off it, John, it’s not that funny.” 

John dragged his fingers roughly across his eyes dislodging the tears that had acuminated. He ran after Greg when the man turned to follow Mrs Hudson again. He was shaking his head when John finally caught up grabbing his elbow to drag him a little closer. John did his best to contain his giggling; he recognised that he wasn’t very successful in his endeavour. 

“What the fuck is a slightly kinky hand job, mate?” 

“Oh fuck off, is that what you focused on? What about the rest of it? Come on man I’m all at sea with this.” 

“What is there to be at sea about; you’re both adults. For what it’s worth I don’t think you need to date. I mean you should go on some, treat the man to a nice dinner or something but really you’re kind of intense to be dating. Just you know, be together, in a relationship, prescribe a title if you need one but if not then just do what makes you happy. But seriously mate: how kinky are we talking?” 

Greg laughed in response but he also blushed slightly so John kept on. 

“I mean was leather involved or something because,” Greg shrugged and John whistled in response “I’ve been underestimating Mycroft clearly.” 

“No leather but yes, I would imagine you have been.”

“Hey, whatever gets you going mate. I get the whole Holmesian-sexual thing.” 

“Holmesian-sexual?”

“Yeah, I mean you have to admit the Holmes brother would likely be called off-putting by some.” 

“Their loss then.” 

“Yep.” 

They were drawing up to the car park now; one of the agents was navigating placing Mina in her car seat under the watchful gaze of Mrs Hudson. John could see the tail end of his scarf where it spilled over the edge of her car seat. She really was a deep sleeper. 

“What was Mycroft even doing today?” 

“Work of some kind; pretty much ruling the world.” 

“So just a normal day then.”


	22. Interlude: Paper Cranes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John? What do you wish for?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! 
> 
> How are we all. It's all finished and written but i'm giving you this little palette cleanser before the dramatic final chapter. 
> 
> Have a little Johnlock my sweets. 
> 
> Smooches MJ X

_“Have you ever made paper cranes, John?”_

_Sherlock sat crossed legged in the centre of their living room surrounded by a multitude of paper squares, all different colours and sizes, patterned and plain. He plucked a large grey square towards him from the nearest stack, as John watched the colour shifted across the paper like the surface of pools of petrol on tarmac._

_“No Sherlock, I’ve never made them.”_

_“Would you like to learn?”_

_“I’d rather watch.”_

_“Alright, let’s test your observation skills.”_

_Sherlock began folding the paper rapidly, his long fingers flying across the material manipulating it to his will. A shape began to form._

_“You do know the legend of the paper cranes don’t you John?”_

_“Yes. Tell me anyway.”_

_“Why, John?”_

_“Because I like to hear your voice.”_

_Sherlock smirked at him, his fingers still moving, still creating even when his focus was devoted to John._

_“I’ll tell you your favourite part. Once you make a thousand your dearest wish will be granted. There was a young girl, born in Hiroshima, that developed Leukaemia as a result of the bomb. While she lay in her hospital bed she was told the legend of the thousand cranes and became fixated on completing the thousand and getting her wish.” Sherlock had moved on to more paper; by this point elaborate examples of cranes began forming at the edges of the coffee table each of them slightly more ornate than the last. John watched Sherlock’s fingers dance across the paper the same steps repeating over and over again until John felt himself drifting. “Are you still with me John?”_

_“Yes Sherlock.”_

_“Good, you know how I loathe repeating myself.”_

_“Yes Sherlock.”_

_“So the young girl was told this story and started on her quest to fold one thousand and get her wish. She hoped that with her wish she would become well again and be cured of the cancer ravaging her body.”_

_John shifted in his chair so he could curl his body inwards more comfortably. He loved Sherlock’s voice. Loved the melody and the lilt of it, loved its depth and richness, he loved it when it said harsh words or when it murmured softer ones._

_“Did she make the thousand cranes?”_

_“Sources differ but the Hiroshima memorial says that she reached her goal and continued to fold more throughout her stay in hospital.”_

_“Did she get her wish?”_

_“She died in 1955 but her story lives on. The crane,” Sherlock held up the example he had just finished. It was a deep blue material which shimmered with an undercurrent of green, “has since become a symbol of peace however. Buddhists tell the story of Sadako,_ _the little girl, to show how the actions of one person can inspire the world.”_

_“I could never decide if that story was a happy one or not,” John said._

_“I don’t think it is for us to judge John. It has a message and shows something beautiful coming out of something tragic, but a young girl still lost her life when she shouldn’t have.”_

_“It’s sad that she didn’t get her wish.”_

_“Yes. Do you believe in wishes, John?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I see you making them. At your birthday, with Mrs. Hudson while she made the Christmas pudding, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a man of science quite so desperate to find a star in the night sky in London.”_

_“Don’t tease, Sherlock.” John moved to get out of his chair, he was too comfortable to put up with being mocked._

_“I don’t tease John,” Sherlock abandoned his paper cranes and moved towards John where he had moved to the edge of his chair. John tracked his movements, watching the sway of his hips, the shift of his shirt where it stretched across his chest, the buttons straining against the material, “I wouldn’t tease you.”_

_“You always tease me.”_

_“Not about this.” John found himself being pushed back against his chair, his legs shifted wider so Sherlock could kneel between them comfortably. “Tell me what you wish for John.”_

_“I don’t think so.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because then they won’t come true.”_

_Sherlock gripped his thighs, using them to push himself up so their chests were millimetres apart, his next words ghosting across his lips._

_“Then tell me the true ones.”_

_“Sorry?” John whispered. Sherlock smirked and drifted his hands further up John’s legs, he could feel the somewhat rough shift of denim against his skin where Sherlock rubbed._

_“Tell me the wishes that came true, tell me the first one.”_

_“Sherlock…”_

_“Please John, don’t hide from me.” Sherlock’s lips drifted over John’s jaw never quite making contact as John craved for them to._

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“Why?”_

_“You won’t like me anymore if I tell you.”_

_“That could never happen John, tell me.”_

_“I was seven and it was Christmas.” John shifted in his seat but Sherlock’s hands tightened their hold on his thighs. “Sherlock…”_

_“Trust me John. You really must.”_

_“I do.”_

_“Then tell me this, you’ll feel better after. What did you wish for when you were seven?”_

_“They’d never stop yelling, Sherlock, and he’d never stop drinking.”_

_“Your father?”_

_“And my mother.”_

_“Oh John.”_

_“It was Christmas Eve and they were throwing things. I couldn’t sleep, I kept worrying about this stupid clay cup I’d made my mum for Christmas. I’d put it under the tree before I’d gone to bed and every time I heard something break I just prayed it wasn’t the cup. I’d hidden myself away before they’d come back from the neighbours’ Christmas party, I’d bought myself a lock for my bedroom door. My father was a bully when he was drunk, no, he was a bully all the time, but he was violent when he was drunk.”_

_John stopped, his breathing slightly laboured; he couldn’t tell Sherlock this and look into his eyes while he did so. John felt a soft pressure against his middle. As if reading his mind, Sherlock had shifted again, curling back onto his knees so he could rest his head against John’s stomach. The steady weight of Sherlock’s body against him rooted John to his chair._

_“Keep talking John.”_

_“I hid myself away and I couldn’t sleep, Harry was crying next door but I couldn’t get to her without opening my door. I wanted to be brave enough to go to her, I really did Sherlock. I thought about climbing out of my window, I’d seen James Bond do it in one of his movies, he got locked in this room by the villain and couldn’t save the girl. He had climbed out of this massive window and shimmied along the edge to save the day. I wanted to do that, wanted to be a hero. So I opened my window but there was no ledge between mine and Harry’s bedroom’s just wall. I couldn’t do anything. If I made too much noise, called out to Harry to let her know she wasn’t alone, Dad would remember he had kids and get mad. I hadn’t got enough money to buy Harry a lock when I bought mine. I’d offered it to her but she’d told me she didn’t need it. She was brave enough without it and that I should keep it for when I got scared. I wasn’t a brave child, Sherlock.”_

_“He was your father, you shouldn’t have been afraid of him. You shouldn’t have needed a lock for your doors.”_

_John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, watching how the light from the fire place caught the lighter pigments and made them shine. “I looked out my window and I saw the stars. I’d always loved the stars, Sherlock; little specks of light in the darkest of nights, my Gran had told me when I was little that you could wish on the first star you saw that night. So I looked and I picked and I made my wish.”_

_“What did you wish for?”_

_“That my Dad would leave.”_

_“Oh John.”_

_“Nothing happened that night and the next morning me and Harry went downstairs to find Mum passed out under the Christmas tree. She was out of it, drunk, possibly high who even knows but Dad wasn’t there. He had broken her nose, there was blood all over her face but he wasn’t there. I thought there was a chance that my wish had come true and that he’d left. I didn’t want to admit how happy that thought made me. We cleaned mum up and poured her into a chair. Me and Harry did our best to tidy up but the house was still a mess and most of the gifts had been broken. Mum slept the rest of the day and me and Harry watched the movies we could get on our mostly busted television. Half the channels were just fuzz. Dad came home around eight and went straight to bed; mum woke up a little while later and followed. I remember Harry making us fish finger sandwiches while I cried. She thought it was because Christmas was ruined but actually it was because Dad had come back.”_

_“When did he actually leave?”_

_“Nearly a year later, mum came to see me and Harry in the school nativity. He was gone when we got home, he took all the money we had and whatever Christmas presents hadn’t been hidden but he didn’t come back. I felt bad for my wish every time my mother cried, every time she got drunk and yelled at me and Harry telling us it was our fault he had gone, I just wanted to admit that it was all my fault Sherlock, I’d wished for it and it had come true.”_

_“John you didn’t make your father leave, he just left. It wasn’t because of your wish.”_

_“I know, but try telling an eight year old it wasn’t his fault his father left. It’s a hard sell Sherlock.”_

_“What do you wish for now?”_

_“Different things.”_

_“On your last birthday?”_

_“Sherlock, leave it.”_

_“No, John, tell me.” Sherlock smiled up at him from between his legs. God but John loved him. How he loved him. “John? What do you wish for?”_

_“I wished that you were alive.” Sherlock didn’t say anything but moved to sit across his lap, his arm thrown around John’s shoulder. He felt like a real weight across his lap even though John knew he couldn’t be. “I wished that you were still with me.”_

_“You should wish for happy things John, wish for things you can make happen for yourself. What was the last wish you made; was it still about me?”_

_“No, no not this time.”_

_“What was it about?”_

_“Mina.”_

_“How’s our little girl?”_

_“She’s so good Sherlock, she’s got some cheek now and she’s so smart, I can see it in her eyes. She looks just like you when she pouts. It makes me miss you so much.”_

_“What was your wish for her?”_

_“It was for me.”_

_“What was it then?”_

_“I don’t want to tell you.”_

_“I think you should,” Sherlock said._

_John held Sherlock closer, tightening his arms around the man’s thin waist. He whispered his wish into Sherlock’s neck._

_“I wished that I would never be like my father. No, that wasn’t it. I wished that losing you wouldn’t turn me into my mother.”_

_“John, you could never be like them.”_

_“Sherlock, I am like them, they’re in my blood.”_

_“Some things are more important than blood, John, love is more important, do you love Mina?”_

_“With all my heart.”_

_“Do you love me?”_

_“I always will.”_

_“You could never be like them.”_

_“But you left me, us, just like he did.”_

_“I didn’t know about her, I didn’t know I was a father and I didn’t leave you. Not like he did. I didn’t choose to.”_

_“What do you mean? You killed yourself, Sherlock, I watched you do it.”_

_“Think John, really think, why in the world would I choose to leave you.”_

_“You said you were a fraud.”_

_“You never believed me.”_

_“Never, I would never believe that.”_

_“I know, I always knew.”_

_“Then why would you say that?”_

_“As ever, John, you see but you do not observe.”_

***

 “John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who says dream sequences are overdone!?! :) till next time.


	23. A Spider In His Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is beautiful readers (old and new *waves*) 
> 
> This is the final chapter and it's a long one. There will be an epilogue but it has very little in the way of plot. 
> 
> The series will continue with a series of timestamps before the next installment. The first is already written and involves our favorite uncle taking his niece to the zoo. 
> 
> I'm about to add a series link so please head over and subscribe if you would like to keep up with John, Mina, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Mycroft as well as witness the return of our wayward Consulting Detective.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's followed along from the beginning or come to this near the end, you've made this a wonderful experience by way of Kudos, Subscriptions, Comments and Bookmarks and I cherish every one. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this final chapter and some of the twists you might not see coming. 
> 
> MJ X
> 
> p.s. 'There's an east wind coming'

_“As ever, John, you see but you do not observe.”_

***

 “John!”

John startled awake, the last breath he had taken while asleep still clouded the car window he had been resting against.

“What? Greg, what?”

“Something’s happened,” Greg said from the front seat. He had turned around and was looking between John and the back window in quick succession.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re not heading into London anymore. Something’s happened and Mycroft is having us taken to his house in Northaw.”

“Is that the big one in the country?”

Greg nodded before his phone went off. He turned back to the front before answering.

“Francis, can you tell us anything about what’s happening?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

John looked across to where she was leaning forward towards the front seat; she had a hand still clasped to Mina’s car seat.

“I’m sorry ma’am but Mr. Holmes has asked that we hold off on the details until he had a chance to speak with you himself.”

“Why is that?” John asked. He was half listening to Francis and half trying to listen in on Greg’s side of the phone conversation.

“I wouldn’t like to...”

“Can the nonsense, Francis, just tell us why Mycroft doesn’t want us to know before we make it to Northaw?”

“Sir the only information I have is that he doesn’t want you to know, his reasons are his own.”

“But you know what’s happening?”

“Sir…”

“In London, I mean, you know what’s happening?”

“I know some, sir.”

“You know some. Well that’s great.”

“John,” Mrs. Hudson admonished.

“I know the basics, sir, but I’ve not been briefed yet. That has to happen in a secure location.”

John knew that, he’d known that before but it didn’t make the situation any less frustrating.

Greg’s mobile starts to ring in the silence, John watched the man scramble through his pockets till he found it. Greg greeted Sally and listened in silence while she yelled down the phone clearly annoyed.

“Well fucking do something Sally! The bastard is key to our investigation, the spooks can’t just spirit him away because they’re bloody done with him! We’re not, you tell them that.”

Mina let out a cry of distress from her car seat at Greg’s outburst but stayed mercifully asleep. John slapped him hard on the shoulder, the last thing any of them needed right now was a screaming infant and with the sheer amount of tension in the car Mina was sure to react. Greg raised his hand to acknowledge his mistake but kept his phone glued to his ear, clearly listening to Sally on the other end explain some form of fuck up.

“Alright Sally, I understand what you’re saying. Just keep me in the loop if you hear anything more. Do we have strong cases for the ones we’re keeping?” Greg shook his head slightly before hanging up his phone.

“Are you alright Greg?”

“Mr. Lestrade, any information you have just received I’m going to need you not to share.”

“I don’t see why the hell that would happen Francis.”

“Sir, with all due respect Mr. Holmes…”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Holmes just royally screwed me over so honestly I’m not in the mood to do him any favours. And it’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, not Mr, I worked damn hard to get the title I have.”

“Yes sir, but I’m afraid I have to insist that any information you received remain embargoed until we reach the Manor.”

“Like hell, John needs to know…”

“With all due respect sir, no he does not. Detective Inspector, this is a matter of national security and we are not in a secure location. I am authorised to confiscate any and all methods of communication you have but I have held back from doing so out of courtesy. Mr. Holmes does not want you to feel like prisoners.”

“Are we prisoners?” John asked, panic having taken a firm hold in his chest now. Beside him Mrs. Hudson was visibly shaken and maintaining her grip on Mina who slept on despite the noise.

“Dr. Watson, sir...”

“Are we prisoners, Francis?”

“No sir, right now you are four civilians under the protection of the British Government. This has been judged as a necessary precaution by Mycroft Holmes.”

“Are you armed?” John asked. Francis visibly faltered; his mouth opening slightly in mid answer. “Francis it’s a simple question; are you armed?”

“Yes sir, Doctor Watson.”

“Alright; can you provide Greg with your second weapon?”

“Sir…”

“Greg is fully certified and extensively trained, aren’t you Greg?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, so provide him with your second weapon.”

“Doctor Watson, that isn’t going to happen,”

“Well it needs to because if not I’m going to call your boss and cause a massive fucking problem. I’m guessing that if whatever is happening is bad enough for us to be redirected, this government issued car to be judged non-secure and for Greg to get a phone call about some unknown criminal being deported, my calling Mycroft Holmes and having a fit isn’t going to help any.”

“Sir I can’t just pass over a loaded weapon.”

John sighed.

“Greg, check the glove box. There should be a compartment accessible through the top wall, there’ll be a small latch concealed near the back right corner.”

Greg dove for the glove compartment while Francis gaped at John. Greg pulled his hand out a moment later holding a small semi-automatic pistol and a cartridge of ammo.

“Do you know how to load that Greg?” John asked.

Greg proceeded to check and load the gun ensuring the safety was on before checking the weight of it in his hand.

“How in the hell did you know where that was, John?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock gave me step by step instructions for if Mycroft ever kidnapped me…again,” John answered simply. The pair of them had sat on the carpet in 221b’s living room, Chinese food boxes and the schematics for Mycroft’s myriad of vehicles scattered around them with Sherlock pointing out all the most common places for handgun concealment as well as a few ideas on how to befuddle his captors. It had taken him three months to convince Sherlock sewing cyanide tablets into their coat collars was too far; John should never have let him watch those spy films.

“Doctor Watson… Detective Inspector I am not comfortable having an armed civilian in this car.”

“For fuck sake, Francis, I’m hardly a civilian,” Greg complained.

“For all intents and purposes you are, Detective Inspector.”

“Well then that’s just tough, isn’t it?”

“With all due respect sir…”

“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson shouted; Mina hedged sleep this time. John caught her eyelids flutter but they closed securely again when Mrs. Hudson began rubbing a small circle on her stomach. “Boys please, this is hardly important, Gregory has the gun and that’s fine. He’s not about to turn around and shoot everyone, unless that’s what you’re suggesting, Francis?”

“Of course not Mrs. Hudson but…” Francis tried in vain to bring the car back to a calm sanity and failed dramatically.

“No buts, Francis, Gregory is a trusted member of New Scotland Yard and that should be good enough. Now John, you need to stay calm, I understand that you’re panicked slightly and I’m sure that this is bringing back all sorts for you but darling clenching your fists and lashing out is going to help no one. We don’t need defending at this moment, we’re not under attack.”

“You don’t know that, Mrs. Hudson, and you don’t know because no one is telling us anything.” John said.

“That may be the case John but there’s going to be a good reason for that. I trust Mycroft and if he has told Francis that he’s not allowed to tell us, well then that’s the end of that in my opinion and Gregory sweetheart I understand that you’re frustrated, I don’t pretend to understand why or how the information you just found out affects you, but if Mycroft is behind it there’s a good reason. Trust him.” Mrs. Hudson reasoned.

“Mrs. Hudson he’s not trusting us so why…”Greg said.

“I don’t think that’s true, Gregory. Do you not think that if Mycroft Holmes didn’t trust you he would have let that call come through? Francis could he have stopped that phone call?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And he didn’t so what does that tell you Gregory?”

“I don’t think it tells you much Mrs. Hudson.” Greg grumbled.

“Then you’re just going to wait until you’re in the same room and give him a piece of your mind dear.” Mrs. Hudson said bluntly.

“I intend to, Mrs. Hudson, don’t you worry about that.” Greg answered, he sounded slightly manic and John was glad in that moment to never have been on the Detective Inspector’s bad side.

“Well good. Now Francis, how far out from Mycroft’s home are we?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“About fifteen minutes ma’am.”

“Alright, let’s all of us try and stay calm for those fifteen minutes and if we can’t manage that let’s at least stop cursing, the baby may be asleep but who knows what she takes in. I’d rather not have her cursing at Mrs. Turner the next time she visits.”

The three men agreed and then fell into silence. Francis maintained a stiff grip on the wheel of the car and John noticed him checking the mirrors constantly in sequence. There was a possibility they were being followed, then.

Greg sat stewing in his agitation, the gun resting lightly in his grip; he’d have clearly preferred to holster it but at that moment it wasn’t an option. John sat in a panicked meditation; his head was throbbing and the tremor in his left hand had returned in full force. He closed his hand into a fist reflexively pushing it into his thigh until he was certain he would bruise and when that didn’t work he tried resting it near Mina; the tremor didn’t stop but the violence of the movement diminished somewhat. Mina shifted in her sleep, her closed fist bumping his.

He remembered his dream, remembered the sweet weight of Sherlock across his lap, and allowed the deep seated longing he repressed normally overtake him. He stared down at his daughter nestled in her blanket and unaware of the drama haunting her tiny family. John decided it was better to lose himself in the fantasy of having a complete family, Sherlock by his side, both of them watching over Mina, than sit for the next fifteen minutes with the very real possibility that the portion he did have was under threat.

***

“John, dear, wouldn’t you rather sit down? All that pacing looks to be riling you up?” Mrs. Hudson asked from her perch in front of Mycroft’s desk.

They had made it to Mycroft’s with minimal drama; Mina had woken up during the first security check and hadn’t stopped crying until they’d been allowed to exit the car. Whether she had been crying because of the noise, the presence of strangers, the palpable tension in the car or being woken up from a restful sleep was unclear. She had stopped when Greg had pulled her out of her car seat but she’d been clingy ever since, a possibility Greg didn’t seem to have anticipated as he now walked the length of Mycroft’s office soothing Mina with nonsense words and a strong hand on her back. Anthea had pulled the weapon from his grip the second he had taken Mina into his arms.

“I can’t sit, Mrs. Hudson, not yet; I need to know what’s happening. Anthea, where is Mycroft?”

Anthea had maintained her position in front of the study’s entrance. She stood in silence her Blackberry somewhat forgotten but still clasped in her hand. She scanned the windows constantly.

“Mr. Holmes is wrapping up a call with the Russian delegation. He’ll be with you as soon as possible Dr. Watson.”

“And this call to the Russian delegation, does it have anything to do with sending my key suspect back to his bloody homeland?” Greg groused.

Anthea looked at him quickly, raising a clearly unimpressed eyebrow in his direction.

“I’m not certain about the content of the conversation.”

Greg muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bullshit under his breath in response.

“But I can tell you that it will likely have involved the deportation of the criminal you are referring to.”

“What bloody good is that? We had a case against him; my team have been working constantly to get ready for trial. You lot can’t just swoop in and take over. He killed two police officers; two of mine. How would Mycroft feel if one of his team died and he could do nothing but watch the perpetrator swan off to Russia?”

“I would feel very frustrated, I assure you, Gregory.” Mycroft entered the room in time to hear and take note of his potential lover’s diatribe. “Believe me when I tell you that I am sorry, I am sorry our case has taken precedence and I am sorry that you will be left unsatisfied in the delivery of this justice.”

“It’s not justice Mycroft, not by a long shot.”

“I know Gregory; it very rarely is,” Mycroft said before turning to address Anthea. They stood close, whispering to each other, Mycroft handing over a series of note cards and Anthea nodding in seeming agreement at whatever they contained. John was quickly losing patience.

Mycroft glanced quickly to John where he had halted his pacing.

“John, I apologise for the way your evening has ended and I will endeavour to explain the situation to the best of my ability shortly but firstly, Mrs. Hudson, I wonder if you might answer a few questions for me?”

Mrs. Hudson looked slightly startled but nodded. “Anything you need to ask is alright.”

“Would you like to speak in private or are you comfortable with John and Gregory being present?”

“I’m sure I don’t mind them being here.”

“Alright. The first of my question concerns your ex-husband.” Mycroft took a photograph out of the folder he had been carrying, showing it to Mrs. Hudson who took it gingerly to consider three men walking down a street. John could distinguish nothing special about them. One looked to be significantly older than the other two and all three men were well built and stocky.

“Yes, this is him.” Mrs. Hudson pointed to the older man in the centre of the image. “What does he have to do with this Russian chap?”

“We’re not one hundred percent certain of that yet but my team have been working for some time of suspected links between drug cartels in the United States and Eastern Europe. I wonder if you might remember any of his colleagues, in particular this man.” Mycroft pointed to the man on the left hand side of the photograph. “Did you know him?”

“Yes, that’s Sebastian. Awful man, very rude, he once broke one of my teapots over a poor man’s head. I mean honestly it was such a waste.”

Mycroft smiled blandly at this little aside. He tapped his finger back on the photograph of the man.

“Did you notice anything else about him?”

“Well, he had an Irish accent, but had been living in New York for a time so it had a little hint of that too. He was gruff and rather unpleasant, terrible manners really, worse than my Frank’s. He used to chew on tooth picks and spit them all over my floor.”

Mycroft nodded. “Did you ever overhear your husband and Sebastian talking about any particular business?”

“Well Sebastian wasn’t a runner or anything; he didn’t technically work for Frank. He came over with a load of uncut product the year before Frank went to jail. He had propositions for Frank about expanding outside of Florida. I never liked him, Mycroft, I don’t mind telling you. He had a rather nasty habit of rubbing cocaine into his gums. They’d bleed something awful and he’d just spit that blood anywhere he liked.”

John wondered at how Mrs. Hudson could become the woman she was, having been surrounded by such people for so long.

“You did the books for the cartel while you were with Frank, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Hudson hesitated, her gaze flitting to Greg quickly before continuing.

“Yes, I did the books. He was always terrible with his sums and he used to say it kept me out of the mischief.”

“Now, did you notice anything odd about the money that was coming in while Sebastian was spending time with your husband?”

“There was a lot more of it if that’s what you mean.”

“How about anything else?”

 _“_ Well, I’m not sure…”

“Anything at all, Mrs. Hudson.”

“It’s just… I did notice that the money from the opiates was a lot higher than usual.”

“Did Mr. Hudson specialise in opiates?”

“Oh no, not particularly, mostly party drugs really; Miami was his usual haunt.”

“So did you ask about the opiates?” Greg asked this time. He had moved forward, Mina now silently sleeping against his chest, her face turned into his neck, her fist closed around his shirt collar.

“Yes, I suppose I did but I only asked because I didn’t like the things being around. So many of the lads were addicts. I just thought it was so much temptation for them.”

“What did your husband tell you?”

“Well he told me to leave it alone and do the money stuff. But his partner,” Mrs. Hudson poked her finger at the other man in the picture. Now John was closer he could more easily see the differences between the three and this final man seemed to be smaller. While the other two were hardened and clearly rough this man’s eyes gleamed and his clothes reflected his wealth rather than hiding it. He looked less intimidating somehow. John wondered if that wasn’t rather the point. “Terry was his name, he told me that Sebastian was getting Frank to stockpile the stuff to make a stronger hold on the market. Terry didn’t like it but then again Terry didn’t like the drugs.”

“But you were a drug cartel,” Greg said, confused.

“Yes but Terry didn’t touch that bit, he dealt with the money. He was a launderer. Very good at what he did; a genius really.”

“Genius criminal,” Greg muttered.

“Yes, well, most of them were, Mr. Lestrade, but Terry wasn’t a bad sort. He would look after me when Frank had a bad day. He never made a move on me if you can imagine. I sometimes wondered if he liked the fellas, you know. And when Sherlock arrived I thought it a little more clearly.”

“So was Sherlock there when Sebastian was still working with your husband?” Mycroft asked.

“No, Sebastian moved on a few days before. Said he was going back to New York to meet a contact but he never came back. Of course once Sherlock arrived it was only a matter of time before Frank’s empire came down around his ears. But Terry didn’t get caught. None of us knew where he went.”

“I can tell you if you like,” Mycroft offered, withdrawing another photograph from the folder and handing it across.

Mrs. Hudson gasped at the image. “I don’t believe it.”

The man John recognised as being Terry, although he looked entirely different in the later picture, stood front and centre in a group of four men, each of them in suits and wearing distinct police badges.

“His name was James Terrance Walters and he was an undercover drug enforcement agent.”

“From the government?”

“Yes, from the American government. They had been watching your husband closely. When Sherlock arrived Agent Walters got put underground so Sherlock wouldn’t uncover their operation. My brother had a tendency to overlook the potential damage destroying an undercover persona might cause.”

Mrs. Hudson grinned, nodding her head along with Mycroft’s words.

“But what about when Frank went to trial? Terry was nowhere to be found.”

“They didn’t need him after Sherlock arrived but Terry maintained his cover to keep contact with this man, Sebastian. “

“Oh, is he an awfully bad man?”

“Yes I’m afraid so. Poor manners are not the worst of his crimes, although I quite agree they are distasteful.”

“What does any of this have to do with Mina, Mycroft?” John asked, losing his temper with the speed of the proceedings.

“I apologise John, I needed to make sure of Mrs. Hudson’s recollections concerning this man, Sebastian, because it is the opinion of the British secret service that this man has everything to do with Mina.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Hudson said softly.

“I know Mrs. Hudson, I apologise. This might be quite distressing but I want to reassure you that you are safe and that we will be ensuring that,” Mycroft said, reaching out to take Mrs. Hudson’s hand.

“John, take a look at this picture and tell me if you recognise any of the men.”

Mycroft passed back the image of the three men for John’s attention. He studied them closely, focusing on the broadest man in the image.

“I’ve never met any of them.”

“Are you certain?”

“Never knowingly.”

“Alright, how about this one?”

John took the new photograph Mycroft held out and felt his throat close up. The image contained the same unsmiling face of Sebastian, wearing sun glasses this time and a finely cut suit. The dark colour framed his shoulders perfectly, drawing the eye to his thick tattooed neck and the muscles that bulged from within the sleeves. But he wasn’t the focus of John’s attention. No his eyes was being drawn to the smaller man in the centre; the slim cut of his bespoke suit, the glittering shine of his aviator shades and the undeniable smirk of John’s worst nightmare.

Jim Moriarty stood centre stage walking toward the camera flanked on either side by two massive men, one of whom was Sebastian and the other some unknown goon. Both were clearly armed while their boss carried nothing. He carried nothing, John thought, because who in their right mind would dare take on Jim Moriarty.

“Christ, Mycroft.”

“Yes, Sebastian Moran was the right hand of Jim Moriarty. They worked together for years building Moriarty’s web and influence around the world. Moran we know is a former SAS trained operative with a taste for sniper kills and assassinations. He is without doubt one of the most deadly men on the planet.”

They all took some time to digest this information; Greg came to stand beside John so he could look at the picture as well.

“This other man, I think I recognise him,” Greg said.

“Moran you mean?” Mycroft asked, curious.

“No not him, the other one, the man on the left of the image.”

Greg took the photo gently out of John’s grip one handed while he balanced Mina steadily. He handed it to Mycroft and pointed to the man yet to be identified.

“We’ve been struggling with him. Where do you recognise him from? Do you remember?”

“I think it might have been one of the raids we did at the beginning of Poppy, you know. Some of the thugs put up more of a fight when we went in to close down production. This one was holding on to one of the girls with a broken bottle. Sally took him down.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure enough, I had to see the fools face in autopsy photos for weeks. Molly had him over at Saint Barts.”

John hadn’t thought about Molly in months. He glanced at Mina and wondered vaguely if he should be involving the woman in his daughter’s life. She had been one of his and Sherlock’s closest female friends after all. The thought was unrelated to anything happening around him but as his mind often did while panicked he had drifted into a calm space. His sister had once called it the eye of the storm, when John took a moment to reign in the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Anthea, will you liberate the files pertaining to this man,” Mycroft turned the picture to Anthea, who nodded silently before leaving the room. “Thank you Gregory. Finding this man might help us locate Moran.”

“Is that what you’re after then?”

“Yes, we have reason to believe that Moran is reforming Moriarty’s network. Mr Mitrović, you will know him as Mr. Red, Gregory, has given us reason to believe that the network is reforming, or more accurately that it never broke down as we imagined it would. Our intelligence, as it is, suggests that Moran would be the logical front man for such an operation. There is however another reason this concerns us. Mr. Mitrović during his interview made threats against the family in order to intimidate me into action.”

“Action against what?” Greg asked.

“Numerous things, but one of the biggest was a wave of attacks members of their network are being subjected to across Russia and Eastern Europe. “

“Someone’s taking down the network?” John asked.

“It would appear so, Mitrović seemed to be under the impression the attacks were being carried out under my orders, as revenge for Sherlock.”

“I take it they’re not,” Greg asked. Mycroft smiled lightly but shook his head.

“Not my orders, no, and no one within the EU, I’ve been collecting data since the termination of the interview.”

“How do you know they’re not lying?” John asked.

“I don’t just trust people John.”

“So we’re spying on our allies.”

“We spy on most people John, and most people spy on us. Countries and governments don’t honestly trust each other.”

“That’s quite distressing Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson said, having been silent for most of the conversation. All of the men seemed to have forgotten she was present. “That you don’t know who’s carrying out these attacks, I mean.”

“Well we haven’t ruled out the Americans or the Russians yet; although my equivalent in the United States, although interested, seemed uninformed.  Helena has been investigating Moran for years and came close to capturing him when Moriarty set up base in London. I imagine I’ll be working closely with her for a while.”

“I’m still not seeing the link to Mina, Mycroft,” John said.

Mycroft sighed. “There is a great deal to say on this, John. Mitrović represented a small group of Moran’s men, he was a small fish in reality, although he caused quite enough damage. The link to Mina is simple; he knew her name and her relationship to me. He knew enough to have identified her as a point of weakness for me.”

“He threatened her?” John asked.

“Yes, amongst numerous others but the emphasis was on her.”

“How exactly…”

“Did he know about her? We’re not sure yet, Mina’s existence has been kept quiet for numerous reasons. There is a potential criminal link that we are investigating,” Mycroft indicated the folder and loose pictures, “The drug den Mina was found in has links to the mob Mitrović belonged to and as such is also linked to Moran.”

“Who was linked to Moriarty?” John said.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he knew about her?” John asked.

Mycroft looked uncomfortable but John held his gaze.

“No, I don’t believe he did. She would have been a weakness for Sherlock and one Moriarty would likely have exploited.”

John agreed with this assessment. Moriarty would have used her existence to torment Sherlock.

“Also Mitrović made no mention of her being used against Sherlock in the end.”

Now Mycroft looked truly uncomfortable. He went back to the table shuffling the photographs back inside just to replace them with new ones. Each photograph contained a profile shot of a different individual. Three men and one woman; John recognised one of the men but he couldn’t place a finger on where from. Mrs. Hudson was studying the same photograph with a great deal of concentration, tapping a finger gently against her lips as one would do with a pen.

She tapped that same finger over the picture of his face. “I know this one. I don’t remember where from but I do.” She looked to John who nodded his head in agreement; who was he though? A former client, villain, was it something to do with Sherlock?

“His name is Petrovski and he was an assassin; he operated in Norway for the majority of his career before moving to London weeks before Sherlock’s death. You know him Mrs. Hudson because on the day of Sherlock’s death he was in Baker Street posing as a handy man.”

There were general outbursts of shock from Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Greg was demanding to know how Mycroft could have missed an assassin entering Baker Street, wasn’t it always under surveillance? John heard all of this, he remembered the man walking past him and even on the day Sherlock had jumped he’d been in the hall; standing over Mrs. Hudson he could see it in his head. John heard Mycroft’s muttered apologies to a distraught Mrs. Hudson and an explanation of how someone, Moriarty or Moran, had changed the feed to a recorded section from the day before. It had been well done but was not flawless. Mycroft hadn’t been watching because Sherlock hadn’t been in residence. He had believed any danger would follow him to Barts, which as it turned out the majority did.

John heard it but he wasn’t listening, he was remembering his dream and the words his phantom version of Sherlock had whispered in his ear;

_“Think John, really think, why in the world would I choose to leave you.”_

“He would only have left me if he had no other choice,” John didn’t realise he had said this out loud.

The other members of the room fell silent; Mrs. Hudson and Greg looking at him while Mycroft was doing anything but.

“Why would Sherlock jump, truly, it never made sense, he wasn’t suicidal. We all knew that. I’ve been distracted. I’ve been focused on what I saw not what I observed. So stupid. God damn it!”

“John, what are you talking about?” Greg asked.

“Mycroft knows. Mycroft knows because Sherlock killing himself never made sense. Bringing Moriarty down was in no way impossible was it? Disproving his lies.”

“No we could have done it together.” Mycroft stood pulling his suit jacket down before facing John.

“Because what is a criminal mastermind when faced with the two greatest minds in Britain. So why would he have killed himself?”

“John…” Mrs. Hudson started, her voice edged in yet to fall tears.

“No Mrs. Hudson, you know I’m right. Sherlock loved his life, he loved…he loved all of us. It never made sense.”

“John you’re bargaining,” Mrs. Hudson said softly trying to reach out and comfort him. “Suicide never makes sense darling.”

“It wasn’t suicide Mrs. Hudson. Was it, Mycroft?”

They stood there, staring at each other. It reminded him of the Army, of visiting commanders trying to muscle in on a squad and meeting resistance. He was the captain of their squad but Mycroft had the answers, he knew the meaning behind the orders and it was driving John mad.

“No, John, it wasn’t”

“Because why would he do that?”

“He wouldn’t, you’re right, it never made sense.”

“Jesus how didn’t I see it.”

“Because my brother did a wonderful job of convincing the world he didn’t have a heart when in fact he had a very large one. He loved very deeply and loyally and had since childhood.”

“All these people,” John moved his hand over the images, “they’re all assassins?”

“Yes.”

“So there are four, why four?”

“No, there’s at least four. These were easy to find, Moriarty almost highlighted them for us announcing their arrivals on Baker Street.”

“I remember you dragged me to your club. You had files. Are these the same people?”

“Three of them, yes, there was another but he was killed.”

“I remember,” John said.

Greg, who had been missing for most of these developments, was watching John and Mycroft with calculating eyes.

“Why did neither of you tell the police?”

“Sorry?”

“There were assassins living on Baker Street and neither of you thought to include the police,” Greg stated.

He gently placed Mina, who was still sleeping solidly, into the pushchair they’d brought in from the car. She curled slightly so she was twisting away from the fireplace but slept on while Greg turned toward the other two men.

“Why did neither of you tell me?”

“Honestly, Greg, it was right in the middle of Moriarty and the day Mycroft told me was the day you came to get Sherlock on that kidnapping case, and we all know how well that went.”  Greg’s cringe made it clear that he did remember entirely; the investigation, the warrant, the attempted arrest, John’s attack on the Chief Superintendent.

“Alright, we’re straying from the point gentlemen. Moriarty identified those Sherlock was closest too, the three of you and placed a hit on each of you.”

“Given that none of us are dead it’s safe to assume there was more to it than that,” Greg said, seemingly unaffected by the idea of international criminals focusing on him. “Some sort of trigger that would make them act?”

“Yes,” Mycroft began but it was John that finished the thought.

“If Sherlock failed to jump, if he didn’t kill himself, we would all die. That’s what Moriarty did; he threatened us?”

Mycroft nodded again before moving to the drinks cabinet to fix three tumblers of ruby red liquor. Mrs. Hudson had dissolved into silent tears, her handkerchief pressed to her face muffling any noise, while Greg looked a little shell shocked. But John, John was royally pissed.

“Its bloody murder, Mycroft, its bloody murder and no one knows. Sherlock is still the fake detective. Everyone still thinks he was a fraud because the man who forced him to commit suicide was just too damn clever for you.”

“John.” It was Greg this time reaching out to calm John but he was too riled.

“My daughter, Sherlock’s daughter, your niece has to grow up believing her father was a fraud, believing he was a traitor and a kidnapper when in fact he was the most brilliant, brave, wonderful man.”

“Oh John,” Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly.

“The man gave up his life to keep the people he cared about safe and all Mina’s going to hear about him from anyone that isn’t the four of us is that he was a coward and a fraud. How is that right, Mycroft? That can’t be what lasts about him, it can’t.” John’s voice broke on the last; his grief pushing up through his chest, his heart racing and a hatred so dark it scared even him roared for justice against the monster that had taken Sherlock from them. That had taken Sherlock before he had a chance to realise…to believe how much he truly loved him.

Mycroft didn’t turn to look at John until his anger had petered out. He forced a glass of port into his hands, instructing him to drink it which John did. The liquor burned his throat and roiled his unsettled stomach into something like nausea but John pushed it down. He needed answers, he needed justice. Mina needed it. She needed to grow up in a world where her father was the hero of his story and not the villain.

“What would you have me do, John?” Mycroft asked taking the glass and refilling it.

“Fix it, just bloody fix it Mycroft. Release the truth; I’m assuming you can prove it by now.”

“Yes, we have the proof required to clear his name.”

“Then do it.”

“John it’s not that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because if we do this, tell the world, we’d be exposing you and Mina.”

“So?”

“So, John, do you not think she’s been through enough? Do you not think that being hounded by the press for however long it lasts is going to have an effect on her, not to mention the somewhat bigger targets you will be painting on yourselves?”

“From who?”

“From Moran to name but one, Sherlock had enemies and so do I.”

“What?”

The alcohol and residual adrenaline were creating a haze in John’s mind. He sipped at the glass in his hand, turning away from Mycroft’s probing gaze and wandering toward his daughter. Her lips had parted in her sleep, pressed in a way which made them look like she was delivering a kiss.

“If the world knows about her existence you will expose her to all of them.”

“Why?”

“Because what is a more vicious motivator than revenge. She is young and beautiful. The perfect target for kidnapping, powerful and rich family, a tragic back story. Her image in relation to some terrible tragedy, can you not see it John. It would break the country’s hearts and incite terror.”

John could see it; the idea haunted his dreams. His own tearstained face asking for her to be returned, shots of Sherlock being shown alongside some smiling picture of Mina. It was his worst nightmare, worse than the war or watching Sherlock jump. Someone taking her from him and him being powerless to stop them; being taken unaware and drugged while Mina was torn out of the safe bubble of 221b, but something was missing from the image. He felt overwhelmingly sick but not panicked as he did in his dreams because he was stood in one of the most secure locations in the Kingdom and his daughter was sleeping safely surrounded by people, a whole house of people that would kill anyone who made a move against her.  

“There is nothing and nobody on this planet that could take her and keep her.”

“What?” Mycroft asked.  John’s extended silence had apparently lulled him into a false sense of victory because John’s determined expression was clearly unexpected.

“There is no one, Mycroft; she has me and I would die before someone took her from me and if that happened she has two uncles, one of whom is a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard and the other is a man who his own brother described as the British Government. So we hide away for a while and we release a statement from me saying I moved out of Baker Street following Sherlock’s death and how although I’m thrilled the truth has come out I’m moving on with my life. We leave it at that until the media loses interest and then we figure out how we can be safe at home again.”

Mycroft downed his measure of port before handing out the others and moving to stand over Mina. There was panic and devotion in his expression as he watched his niece whimper in her sleep, batting her fist at some imaginary foe.

“Mycroft, are you telling me there’s anything you wouldn’t do to bring her home.”

John didn’t doubt it, he knew Mycroft, he knew how deeply he loved Mina, saw it every time he came to visit and divested himself of the material trappings of power he had employed for the entirety of his association with John to play on the floor chasing Mina on his hands and knees while she squealed with glee at escaping him, saw it when he donned an apron and helped Mina experiment with bubble blowing while John washed up and took half an hour to himself. He saw it in the gifts that arrived despite his objection once a week.

“No, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.” The admission looked to pain him but John didn’t have time to wonder at why.

“So if there’s nothing you wouldn’t do, what is it were supposed to be afraid of?” John asked.

“I missed it though John, I missed Sherlock and he’s dead. How can you be so certain I wouldn’t miss Mina, that I wouldn’t lose her somewhere in a crowd.”

“Because I trust you. Mycroft, Sherlock wasn’t your fault, he was a brilliant mind and if he had reached out to you are you telling me you wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to help him? Mycroft you won’t miss anything but if you do, if I am taken out and they outsmart you and the entirety of the security team you have shadowing us that still leaves us with Greg and the Met; they found her the first time. Greg brought her home and he would do it again, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would.” Greg muttered this in Mycroft’s ear as he clasped his shoulder from behind. Mycroft rocked back on his heels, leaning into the pressure, his eyes still glued on Mina.

“It scared me, today, he said her name and I lost control,” Mycroft confessed quietly. John left it to Greg to comfort him, he wasn’t even certain he was supposed to have heard. He focused on Mrs. Hudson instead, refilling her glass and taking her hand. She smiled at him timidly both of them ignoring what was quickly becoming an embrace.

***

“That’s so natural Mycroft; you love her so much. We all know that,” Greg said, brushing his hand down Mycroft’s side to grip his hip. He sidled in close to the other man’s back and held him, let the warmth of his body quieten the tremors in Mycroft’s body; leant him his strength as he needed it.

“It’s dangerous for her though, it’s dangerous for all of you. Being loved by a Holmes, it makes you all targets.”

“I was already a target, Mycroft, and I would be even if I didn’t love you.” Mycroft drew in a sharp breath at that. “We probably shouldn’t be having this conversation with an audience, Myc.”

“I can’t lose you, any of you; losing Sherlock, it nearly killed me, Gregory.”

“I know, you’re not alone in that, we all loved him Myc. No one is going to get to any of us. Trust us just like we trust you.”

“Do you?”

“I trust you with everything Myc, you brought me in from the cold on one of the worst nights of my life and you made me feel safe and loved. That’s a gift I can’t return to you.”

“You owe me nothing Gregory.”

“That’s not true, I owe you my heart and it’s yours if you want it.” Mycroft turned in Greg’s arms, pressing their foreheads together.

“I don’t know how to do this...”

“You don’t have to; none of us know what we’re doing. But John’s right, Sherlock deserves better and so does Mina. You want to give her the world, I know that, but right now what she needs is the opportunity to grow up in a world where both her fathers are heroes. Where she knows Sherlock didn’t leave because he had nothing to live for but rather he died because he loved others more deeply than himself.”

“I miss him.”

“We all do Myc. John most of all but there’s something in this. Someone we can fight against. We have to keep her safe and we will but we can do more. We can bring down whatever threads Moriarty has left in London and England. Someone else is working from overseas. Well, I say let’s help them. Between the Yard and your lot we can do this.”

“You’re talking about something akin to declaring war, Gregory, people will die.”

“Maybe, but we’ll be making the world safer and not just for Mina. Not just for our family but for everyone. They took people from their homes and wrapped them in bombs; they took children and raised them to be slaves. Mycroft we’re already at war. I’m just talking about fighting back. They’re terrorising the people we care about and the country three of the people in this room promised to protect with our lives.”

Mycroft laughed lightly. “For Queen and Country?”

Greg grinned. “I don’t know about that now, you’re the one with the royal links.” Greg moved his hands to cup Mycroft’s face. “I don’t want to start the new chapter of my life by running scared, Mycroft. I want to stand by your side and protect what we hold dear.”

“You make it sound romantic, Gregory, but this is going to get messy and it’s going to do it quickly.”

Greg shrugged. “A little mess never put me off. Besides, they’re underestimating us.”

“Oh are they?”

“Oh yes; a Detective Inspector, the British Government, a former Army Captain and Mrs. Hudson, who was apparently instrumental in the running of a drug cartel. I wouldn’t want to meet us in a dark alley, would you?”

Mycroft’s eyes sparkled with humour when Greg moved in to kiss him lightly. It was fast and chaste, aware as he was that they still had an audience.

“Hey John,” Greg called over his shoulder without breaking eye contact with Mycroft.

“Yes mate.”

“You ready to go to war?” Greg turned his head to send a wink to John who simply raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Did I ever give the impression I wasn’t, Greg?” John said, falling into parades rest as he stood beside Mrs. Hudson’s chair. The woman broke into a slightly helpless giggle when John winked at her.

“What do you say then, Myc?  Your army is ready and willing. Time to go run the world, don’t you think.”

Mycroft stood for a moment looking over each of them before glancing down at Mina.

“She deserves better than we can ever give her,” he said to the room at large.

“Yes she does, she deserves the whole world. But until you can figure out how to give her that we should focus on making the one we all have safe for her and for everyone,” John said.


	24. Epilogue: Bedtime Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised a hopefully fluffy epilogue. I was aiming for fluffy and it's really short BUT SWEET!
> 
> Smooches MJ x
> 
> Thank you to each of you lovely people who have stayed with this fic through each delay, even the massive one where I drifted into the Inception fandom and lost myself a little. I blame (and adore) EarlGreyTea68 the woman is a wonder. 
> 
> I also adore my beautiful beta Ruby who constantly works to keep me sane and as grammatically correct as possible considering it's me. You're my rock & superstar and seriously so much love to you.

Mina struggled against sleep when John took her through their bedtime routine an hour later. He wrapped her tightly in her blanket and rested her in his lap on the bed in one of Mycroft’s guest rooms.

Outside their door the house was still wide awake. Mrs. Hudson had wandered into the kitchen, ingratiating herself with the staff John was sure. Mycroft and Greg had tucked themselves away in the dining room which was quickly amassing pages of intelligence and detailed maps of gang movements and drug routes across the globe. Anthea was amassing the collective intelligence agencies held on Moriarty’s network and the man at the centre of it: Sebastian Moran.

But inside this room John was creating a haven; the lights were dimmed and classical music poured out of the Bluetooth speakers Mycroft had provided for him. He sat with Mina grousing at being moved and woken again and hummed along with the tune he recognised from nights of Sherlock and the violin.

“Dada?”

“Yes baby?”

“Story.”

“Alright, we can do a story. Which one would you like to hear?”

“Pick Dada.”

John smiled sadly and pulled Mina closer still. She tucked her head under his chin and sighed slightly. Here in this room they were safe, his family. War was brewing and he had a hand in starting it but the world would be a better place. He couldn’t promise Mina a fairy tale but until the world was a little kinder he could tell her stories of true heroes and victories over villains.

“Once upon a time, in a city not far from here, there lived a sad Knight. He had been injured in a big battle and the King told him he couldn’t fight anymore. The Knight didn’t know what to do with himself and so he filled every one of his days with the same things. He would sleep, he would eat, he would write and he would walk. The city had beautiful parks and gardens and the Knight liked to take himself through them every day.”

“Good bit Dada.”

“Yes, little Dove, its coming up.

“One day the Knight had a very bad dream and he took himself to the gardens early. He walked along the same path lost in his thoughts until an old friend called his name.

“‘Sir Knight, Sir Knight,’ the friend called and the knight stopped and talked to the man, who asked him how he liked the city. The Knight said he liked it very much but wanted to live somewhere else. What the Knight didn’t tell his friend was that he was very lonely and he missed his fellow knights very much.

“His friend told him he now worked at the Palace and was training new knights. The friend told our Knight that he should come along because there was someone he wanted him to meet. The Knight and his friend walked through the palace and the Knight remembered when he had studied there and felt very sad, but he followed his friend into one of the many rooms in the castle and there - do you know what he found?”

“Prince,” Mina said, her voice muffled against John’s chest and stifled by her own yawn.

“That’s right clever girl. In the room the Knight saw the most beautiful man he had ever seen. He thought to himself that this man must be very special, and he was. He was a prince and the Knight was sad again because surely the Prince wouldn’t want to be friends with the Knight. But then the Prince looked at the Knight and he told him everything about himself. All of his secrets, the prince saw them and he winked.

“He wanted to live with the Knight but the Knight didn’t know why because the Knight didn’t see himself the way the Prince did. The Knight didn’t think he was brave anymore but the Prince knew differently. He took the Knight with him on his adventures and they climbed buildings and fought monsters and became the very best of friends. But they both had a big secret. It was so big that the Knight didn’t even know he knew it!”

“Silly.”

“He was a very silly knight, you’re right but he thought the Prince was awfully smart so surely he would know the secret and the Knight wouldn’t have to. But the Prince was scared and the Knight didn’t know why. Then there came a Dragon and he was big and scary and the Knight was very scared. The Prince was very scared too but he hid it very well because he didn’t want the Knight to know. The Prince was very silly to, don’t you know, because the Knight could have helped him fight the Dragon but there was still their secret and it was big. The Prince knew what it was because he was very clever.

“The Knight loved the Prince and the Prince loved the Knight. This was their big secret but it should never have been a secret because love is never ever a bad thing. But the Prince sent the Knight away to save one of their favourite people and the Knight, because he was brave now, because the Prince had made him better, he went to save the day, but the Prince had tricked him.

“The Prince went to fight the Dragon all alone because he loved the Knight and he didn’t want him to get hurt. The Dragon knew though, he knew all their secrets and he told the Prince that if he didn’t go with him he would hurt the Knight. The Prince didn’t want to go but he had to save the Knight because the good guys always fight for love.”

“More Dada.” Mina was so close to sleep but John was just as wrapped up in the story as she was in listening to it.

“So the Prince did what the Dragon said and he left the Knight all alone. The Knight was very sad and all of his friends were very worried because the Knight had discovered the secret but it was too late. The Prince was gone and he thought now there was no one for him to love, but he was wrong.”

John scattered kisses across Mina’s head, losing himself for a moment in her steady breaths and the feel of her safe in his arms.

“Because one day a brave Duke someone who knew the Prince as well, he found a little girl and she was very beautiful and very sad because she was all alone. So this Duke took her back to the city and realised that she was very similar to the Prince he had known, so he called the Knight and the Prince’s brother, the King, and they both came to see her. The Knight realised he had been wrong when he thought he couldn’t love again because this little girl made him feel much better. She helped him heal his heart and he promised she would never be alone again. Because the Princess is the Knight’s daughter now and that means he’d never leave her and she never needs to be frightened because everyone is going to keep her safe.

“But the Knight knows that sometimes we keep our fear hidden deep inside because we don’t want to upset other people and so he tells the Princess, his beautiful little girl, ‘I love you more than the moon, I love you more than the stars, I love you more than the very air I breathe because you have my heart and I will keep you safe forever and ever.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you have been so amazing and I love that this little fic has people following it. I started this with no confidence and i've grown with everyone of your clicks, kudos and subscriptions. I adore each of you and you make my day a little better every time you interact with this world so thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.


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